


Gonna Leave a Scar

by trevelies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon until 14.10, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Season/Series 14, hurt!Dean, more speculation than a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-23 07:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trevelies/pseuds/trevelies
Summary: Michael repossesses Dean in Kansas City, and Team Free Will 2.0 isn't exactly on board. It doesn't matter that their only weapon and chance at defeating Michael is currently broken into pieces - family never gets left behind. And that goes double for Winchesters. Sam does a deep dive into Dean's head because he's not letting Dean disappear on his watch, even if it means facing an Archangel on his own turf.Or - what the heck is happening in that midseason premiere.Picking up right after the midseason finale "The Spear", heavily inspired by the midseason premiere promo "Nihilism."





	1. Chapter 1

“Scoot over.”

“No.”

“Shit – Dean, come on... _move_ …”

Dean tries to hide his smile as his brother roughly shoves him over on the couch. “Come on, dude! I was here first!” Dean says, mock outraged. He gestures broadly to the popcorn that has been knocked from the bowl and onto the floor and couch. “You got corn everywhere!”

Sam pulls a face as he finally manages to settle on the couch. “God, Dean, you got to stop calling it that. It just sounds weird. Jack is going to pick up your weird ass habits.”

“Weird ass habits, title of your sex tape.” Dean says in a rush, and smacks Sam on the shoulder.

“Okay, that was a stretch.  Rated a three at best, Dean. You can do better.”

“Rated three at best, title of your – “

“Oh my god.” Mary Winchester groans, entering the room with a fresh bowl of popcorn and two six packs wrapped up in a grocery bag. She sits next to Sam on the couch, and drops the beer on his lap. “I cannot even imagine what John had to deal with you two cooped up in a hotel room.”

And it really says something about the lightness of the mood that the remark doesn’t instantly sour the moment. Dean breaks a can off the plastic ring and cracks it open. He doesn’t even complain about the absence of hard liquor. He’s in a good mood. A good fucking mood.

Sam catches his eye, and nods at the arm chair closer to the TV, where Cas is glued to his phone. They’d recently showed Cas how to download apps and games to his phone, and for an angel that had – literally – experienced the Italian renaissance, Cas had become a renaissance man of the worst kind: a mobile gaming fanatic.

“Watch this.” Sam mouths. Then, grabbing a handful of popcorn from Dean’s bowl, Sam flings one in a large arc towards Cas. It falls woefully short, but Dean is instantly engaged. He holds up a hand, fingers splayed out in their common language of betting. Sam nods seriously, and five whole dollars is suddenly at stake. And if Sam and Dean Winchester take one thing extremely seriously – it’s betting five dollars on a stupid game.

While Cas flings little red birds at little green pigs, Sam and Dean take turns chucking popcorn at the angel. He’s sitting farther away from them than the popcorn can reasonably fly, but neither Winchester will back down an inch when five dollars is on the line.

Mary watches the game intently. She coughs and both sons pause. She gives them an arched eyebrow for their trouble, and then slowly raises her own fist. Five fingers uncurl dramatically. And Mary Winchester is in the game.

A few unsuccessful tosses go by.

“Why is Jack taking so long?” She asks in a low voice, as if Cas is a wild animal that will be spooked from his game at a loud noise.

“He always takes forty years to pick out a movie.” Dean says, in an equally subdued tone.

“And that’s coming from someone who actually spent forty years in hell.” Sam says, and it’s a testament to the eternal shit storm of their lives that everyone nods seriously, not uncomfortably.

Dean shoots a kernel of popcorn into space at a particularly good angle, and sucks in his breath. The door to the room suddenly opens, and the resulting wind veers Dean’s popcorn missile off course.

“Oh, fuck off!” Dean snarls. Jack pauses in the doorway, visibly startled by Dean’s vehemence, and then again at the small lake of popcorn that now circles Cas.

“Uh…” He starts eloquently. He narrows his eyes in the trademarked Jack Kline squint, but sits down on the couch next to Dean without asking.

“What movie did you pick out?” Dean asks, waiting for Mary and Sam to take their turn.

Jack holds up a DVD case, and the answer gleams from the front.

“The Blues Brothers!” Dean says loudly, and claps Jack proudly on the shoulder. “Mom, you are going to love, and I mean _love_ this movie. God, when I think of all the excellent movies you get to catch up on…”

Mary throws a handful of popcorn at her oldest son. “Dean, The Blues Brothers came out three years _before_ I died. Check your expired pop culture knowledge at the door.”

“What is the meaning of this.” Cas says suddenly, and Sam pauses at the apex of his throw. They all freeze, eyes dart to Cas. But he isn’t looking at the popcorn, he isn’t looking at the giant bear of a man on the cusp of attempting to unleash a buttery hell (okay – one piece of popcorn) on him. He’s staring at his phone in disbelief. “My streak…” he mutters, and no one has seen Cas this devastated since Dean said he was done buying toaster waffles for the angel. (“It’s embarrassing, Cas! No man should have to have that many boxes of waffles on the conveyer belt!”)

The Winchesters are all frozen, waiting to see if Cas is coming up for air or about to re-submerge into the murky depths of mobile gaming.

“Wait – I understand the game!” Jack says brightly, and before Dean can say a word, Jack tugs the bowl of popcorn from Dean’s lap, holds it high over his head, and chucks it as hard as he can at Cas. Cas’ eyes shoot up at the last second, but he is too late to avert the oncoming storm. The bowl hits him square in the chest, and the remaining popcorn jumps out of the bowl and settles around him like diseased-looking Christmas popcorn-string decorations.

Five seconds of absolute silence. And then Mary guffaws in the most un-Mary-like way, and Sam and Dean exchange glances and likewise lose their shit. Jack is wide-eyed and confused at the uproarious laughter, but after a few seconds, his laughter joins the mix. Cas looks at them owlishly from underneath his small mountain of popcorn. He then sees the thrown popcorn across the divide between him and the couch-sitters, and his eyes narrow. “I am an angel of the lord.” He thunders darkly. “I have been alive for millennia and have seen the turns of history and experienced horrors that you humans could never comprehend. And I will not stand for this disrespect.”

The room is stunned into silence. Cas’ eyes sparkle dangerously, and the weight of eons shines from their depths. He raises a hand up in the air, holds it there for a moment. Then he leans over and grabs his unopened can of beer and begins to shake it.

“Castiel, _no!”_ Mary yells, delighted, as everyone scrambles for cover. Cas pops the beer open and hurls it like a grenade. Sam manages to snatch it out of the air, but the damage is done. Warm, foamy beer douses them all, and Cas has already moved on, muttering something about needing a phone charger.

Dean hasn’t laughed like this in years. He can’t remember the last time they hung out as a family like this. He can’t remember the last time… he can’t remember…

What can’t he remember?

_Trust me. That’s going to leave a scar._

The scene with his family plays out in front of him, jokes and laughs and popcorn. But the room darkens and no one else notices. Things shift around the room, and the walls begin to vibrate. The laughter in the room slides in and out of hearing. Dean stands from the couch and no one notices. He takes a step, but slides to the side.

He blinks. Where is he? The Bunker? No… He’s… he’s in an office. He’s in _the_ office. He’s…

The spear is warm in his grip, Michael smiles at him, the city stretched out in front of Dean like a fifty-cent postcard. Visions – blue and white and loud – explode in his mind, and Michael falls out of view… he hears his brother call his name…

_“No.”_

_Yeah._

And he’s back in the Bunker’s TV room, he’s back and the room has reset. He’s alone on the couch, Cas is on the arm chair, phone in hand. Sam is about to enter, Mary isn’t too far behind. Dean stands, and the door explodes open. Water pours into the room like a geyser and a flood begins. Cas doesn’t react as the water rushes around him, still tapping at his screen calmly as the water engulfs him.

_There you are,_ says a voice.

And the water swallows Dean up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be completely honest... I was eating popcorn today and was like "I bet I can throw this like really far." Turns out I can't, and turns out that throwing buttery popcorn across your apartment isn't what "adults do." Buuuuut it did inspire some Winchester Bonding 101, and I felt odd posting only this chapter alone. I wrote a fic with some speculation before the midseason finale and it was really cathartic, even if I reread it and cringe a little. (points if you can find the part where I use the word "painfully" twice in one sentence. Wateroflife, I'm calling you out, get those #points). Anyway - I'm not really sure exactly where this fic is going, but its gotta go somewhere, right?
> 
> Thanks for reading and double thanks for comments <3


	2. Chapter 2

Sam clenches the steering wheel tight enough that he no longer has feeling in his fingers.

His eyes are fixed on the road. His eyes are fixed decidedly on anything that isn’t the rearview mirror and anything that will give him a glimpse of the back seat of the Impala.

He feels eyes boring into the back of his skull like two synchronized bullets.

His eyes are fixed on the road.

_This time he’ll be nice and quiet for a change. And he is._

_He’s gone._

Sam stomps on the gas pedal and the speedometer – that’s always been spotty at best – ticks dangerously towards the red.

The car is silent aside from the roar of the engine. Sam is so focused on the road, on anything but the backseat, that he hardly remembers that Jack and Cas are in the car with him, that he isn’t alone with this nightmare.

It’s a four-hour drive to Lebanon. And Sam is going to make it in three.

               

_That’s gonna leave a scar._

 He keeps coming back to Hitomi Plaza. He blinks at the road, but he’s back in the office. He sees his brother’s back tense, he sees the spear angled up at Michael’s throat. And Michael and Dean are like a classical Greek sculpture, the poignant moment frozen in marble and in time. And in his brother’s back Sam sees _victory._ He sees _vengeance._

And then he doesn’t see much of Dean at all.

But he keeps coming back to Hitomi Plaza.

 

“And now, I have a whole army out there. Waiting. Ready for my command. Ready.” And Michael raises his hand. “For this.”

The ensuing snap of fingers echoes in the room, reverberating around Sam’s skull. Sam blinks, his heart is pounding, and time must have slipped away from him. He must have blinked and been lost, because Dean is wearing… Michael is wearing Dean and Michael is wearing… a suit?

“That’s better.” Michael says, and runs a hand through now-parted hair. He pulls on his cuffs, adjusting them to his liking. “I’d hoped Dean would develop some fashion sense in my absence, but you know what they say… old dogs… new tricks…” He taps his chest lightly and smooths away nonexistent wrinkles. “Classic.” And the wink that follows is almost too much to bear.

Michael turns to the window, takes in the Kansas City skyline, a city primed to supernaturally detonate whenever Michael was done monologuing.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam asks bitterly.

“Not to worry, Sam.” Michael says cheerily. “I’m just taking stock, making sure everything is in order. After all,” and he turns back towards Sam, smiling that close-lipped smile. He raises a hand to tap at his temple, “it is just so nice to be home in time for the holidays. Now let’s see what else I’ve missed over the…”

Michael stops abruptly, and his brow furrows over narrowed green eyes. His eyes dart up, and Sam realizes with a jolt that Michael had been accessing Dean’s memories, filling in the gaps since the last time he’d been on board.

Which means he knows –

“You – “ Michael begins, but Cas is already in action. Cas may not be the same angel they met a decade before, and he isn’t on an Archangel’s level. In fact, Cas isn’t a lot of things. But Castiel has never been slow, and he has never hesitated.

Kaia’s spear had been plans A, B and C after Michael melted Ketch’s egg in a manicured fist. Without the spear, they didn’t have a chance in hell of defeating Michael. But when the odds are stacked against them, Winchesters double down.

Michael’s eyes flash a furious blue and he stumbles, catching and steadying himself on the chair. Cas hurtles towards Michael, and Michael is too slow in his debilitated state to properly defend himself. Cas tackles the archangel, and they slam painfully against the glass window. The glass spiderwebs, and for a fearful moment, Sam thinks they’re going to tumble out into the sky and plummet.

“Jack, quickly, do you have the – “ Sam begins, but Jack is already pushing the Enochian-engraved manacles stashed in his jacket into Sam’s hands and is rushing to aid Cas. Michael has been successfully weakened, but he’s still on an entirely different playing field from Cas. Michael already has Cas by the back of his neck and is throwing him against the nearest wall. His eyes blaze blue again, but faltering and sickly, and his teeth are set in an irate grimace. Jack throws his full weight against him, but Michael is stronger, and is prepared and easily shoves Jack to the side. Cas recovers slowly, but manages to get to his feet before Michael turns back towards him. Michael holds up his hand, palm facing the angel. Cas’ face is a riot of emotions, and Sam knows that Cas is searching Michael’s face for any trace of Dean.

Sam steps to the side, keeping Michael’s back between them, and crosses the room in three large strides.

“Jack, do it!” Sam yells, and when Michael turns towards the unarmed Jack, Sam takes advantage of the misdirection – a Classic Dean move – and twists Michael’s outstretched hand, quickly snapping it shut inside the manacles. Michael whips his attention back to Sam, but it’s too late. Cas leaps forward to help Sam restrain Michael, and in a combination of Michael’s weakened state, the surprise attack, and Cas’ angel strength (such as it remains), they manage to get Michael’s other wrist into the other cuff. It has been less than 10 minutes since Michael’s repossessed Dean, and Sam managed to do what he couldn’t do for a month after the church – they’ve captured Michael. _He has Michael._

Michael for his part, seems to reign in his sudden rage, and simply appears nonplussed. Cas, Jack and Sam are breathing hard, and take a careful step back from the archangel, each expecting him to snap the cuffs and kill them in a twitch of fingers.

Michael glances down at the cuffs, and gives them a small, business-like smirk. “Fascinating. A back-up plan.” He cocks his head to the side, and smacks his lips like he’s tasting something. “And… oh, a holy oil injection. How clever. Give me a moment to… ah, I see. You too, Sam? You think I’d jump into my brother’s vessel? That’s some presumption, boy, don’t you know that we don’t like to share?”

Sam ignores Michael, and searches Michael’s face. He’s looking for anything, any hint of his brother.

_This time he’ll be nice and quiet for a change._

“Dean, are you in there?” and the desperation is so thick in his voice, Sam can’t believe the words don’t stick in his mouth like peanut butter.

_And he is._

Michael’s face wipes itself clean of all humor, as if he’s making a serious and sincere effort to play the part for Sam. “Dean’s not home right now. Please leave a message.”

_He’s gone._

 

If Sam was unsure how they were going to get Michael from the office to the Impala, his fears were grossly misplaced. Michael walks easily with them from the office to the Impala, almost as if he’s escorting them to their vehicle like a peculiar valet service.

“What’s the next step here, gentlemen?” Michael drawls from the backseat after they’re settled. Sam pulls the Impala out of the garage and smoothly merges into traffic. He glances uneasily at their prisoner in the rearview mirror. Michael seems comfortable, his arm rests lightly against the door. “I reckon you have a few hours until your little concoction wears off and I’m free to do as I please. I do have a schedule to keep. I just want to know what the end game is here. The one where I don’t disintegrate you into atoms.”

“What makes you think we won’t inject you with holy oil again?” Jack snaps. He is seated directly in front of Michael and has to turn awkwardly in his seat to bring the full glare of his blue eyes onto the archangel. Michael simply smiles amiably.

“It won’t work.” Cas is forced to explain. He gives Michael an uncomfortable look, as if he isn’t pleased to have to admit the flaw in the plan aloud. “We were only able to weaken Michael initially because Sam and Dean injected themselves in a preventative measure against possession. But we would be unable to inject Michael with holy oil now that he’s occupying Dean’s body.”

Michael scoffs, looks out the window. “Like a bit of oil could stop an archangel from reclaiming his Sword.”

Sam bites his tongue.

“It weakened you to the extent you were unable to avoid capture.” Cas points out, and only those that know Cas well can detect the added roughness in his voice.

“Putting the poison inside of the glass and letting a man fix the drink for himself. Clever.” Michael grants. “And Dean’s own idea too.”

Sam’s mood is degrading by the second, worsened by every word that drops from Michael’s – _his brother’s_ – mouth. He had found within himself a small glimmer of hope when the cuffs snapped shut. They had him, they _had_ Michael. But it was like having the strongbox in their possession without the key. Sure, they had Michael. But that didn’t mean they had Dean.

“Well.” Michael says, and lays his head back against the seat. He meets Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Let’s see what big brother Dean is up to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic since the midseason finale came out, but I always stopped because I genuinely cannot see a way for TFW to capture Michael. I feel like the writers write angel abilities differently every season, but how are they going to just slap some manacles on Michael and just call it a day??? Oh well. I guess if Nihilism is going to feature Michael being bundled out of Hitomi Plaza and into the Bunker, I guess I can take a crack at it too.
> 
> Thank you for reading <33 I am going to make a solid effort to push out longer chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"You did this to yourself."

"I think you must really hate me sometimes, Sammy, I really do. I've been nothing but good to you your entire life. I washed your clothes - "

" _I_ washed _your_ clothes -"

" - I took care of you when Dad was gone. Made you brown bagged lunches - "

" - lunches in dad's liquor bags - "

"I taught you how to drive."

" - driving your drunk ass home from high school parties - "

"Lord's fucking name, Sam." And Dean leans back from the table in mock agony. "I am shocked, just _shocked_ at your piss poor attitude. I have cradled your weak ass glass body against my bosom to protect you from the harshness of this world - "

"That's an image."

"And this is how you repay me. Should I turn around? Do you want me to turn around?" And Dean turns around in the cracking red pleather booth. His amulet gets stuck in his jacket and pulls at his neck, but goddammit - when Dean Winchester wants to make a point, he makes a _point_.

Sam smothers his laugh around a scoopful of egg whites, and pretends to heave a long-suffering sigh. "Why are you turning around, Dean?"

"Oh - to make it easier for you to stab me in the back. Here - go for it. I know you palmed your butter knife first fuckin' chance you got for just this reason."

Sam can't hold it back any longer, and starts laughing so hard that he actually, for real, starts choking on his eggs. Fellow diners turn to stare and glare in equal measure at the two off-duty FBI agents currently making a scene. Dean leans across the table and starts slamming his fist hard against Sam's shoulders. Sam, who was finally recovering, begins to laugh even harder. "Dean... Dean... That's not... that's not how you... help someone choking... oh my _god_..."

"Help you?" Dean says loudly. "Mother fucker, I'm trying to help you into the light." He finally leans back, and his hand stings slightly. He grabs his mug of coffee and stares into its dregs, trying to pull himself together.

"Oh my god." Sam says in an undertone once more, and wipes tears from his eyes. He grabs his water and knocks half of it back in one go. Dean watches him, and feels a tiny big brother burst of pride that he can still make his brother laugh like this. Dad's been dead for a few weeks, and their car rides and motel rooms have been thick with silence and memories. Dean knows that he and Sam don't have a... problem, exactly. Dean knows that he can pull away and be difficult, but he doesn't put that on Sam. Deep down, Sam is hurting just as much as Dean, and has his own regrets.

Regrets.

Dear God, does Dean regret this stupid bet.

Sam thunks his water glass down. He glances at Dean's coffee cup, and smirks when he sees that it's empty. "Let me just..." and he looks over Dean's head towards the kitchen, "let me just find your girlfriend here, and she'll top that right off for you..."

"Sam!" Dean hisses, and kicks his brother hard under the table. Sam scoots back farther into the booth, trying to evade Dean and still track down the waitress at the same time. But Sam is over six feet, and he can't dodge Dean's steel-toed boots for long.

Sam gives up when it's clear the waitress isn't coming out of the kitchen any time soon. "What?" He asks, innocent as a death row inmate.

Dean leans across the table and mutters darkly, "You know damn well that when I made that bet - "

Sam's grin grows and he mimics Dean in a terrible falsetto, "'I bet you 100 American dollars that I can pick up the hottest waitress in the next diner -' "

"I wasn't expecting there to only be one waitress! And I didn't know she would be 150 years old!"

Sam is still talking over him, "And why did you even specify _American_ dollars, Dean? What was up with that?"

Dean scowls at his younger brother. The front door of the diner opens and Dean watches horrified as the old crone of a waitress comes in from what appears to be her fourth smoke break since the pair arrived twenty minutes ago. He quickly focuses on his brother again, not wanting to draw Sam's attention to the subject of their bet.

Sam thumbs his phone screen to check the time, and gives a last hopeful glance towards the kitchen. The waitress busies herself at the cash register behind Sam's back, and Dean uses his whole force of being and willpower to not look at her.

"Must have gone on her break. It's fate." Dean lies easily, and pulls a few bills out of his wallet. He deposits them on the table, and slides out of the sticky booth.

Sam pulls a classic bitch face from his repertoire, and follows Dean. His eyes widen when he sees their waitress, but Dean is already shoving him out the front door and towards the Impala. Sam smirks, but allows himself to be steered towards the parking lot.

"Next diner. Hottest waitress - and there has to be at _least_ two. Double or nothing." Dean tries.

Sam shakes his head, delighted. "Nope. 100 _American_ dollars, please."

Dean unlocks the Impala, slides smoothly into the front seat. Sam comes around the front, enters on his side, and gives Dean _the_ _look_ that Dean's been dealing with since childhood. The look that says _come on, Dean... I'm your younger brother... won't you..._ and however the sentence ended, Dean would always cave.

Dean heaves a dramatic sigh, makes a big show of pulling his wallet out of his pocket. He pulls out two fifties. It's the last of his pool hustle money, but he would pay twice the amount to never speak of the diner again.

_Then why do you remember this day so fondly, Dean?_

Dean visibly starts, and his head snaps to look in the backseat. When he fails to find a stranger to punch, he looks out the windows. _What was that?_

"Dean?" Sam asks, and when Dean's head swivels in his direction, Sam's face turns serious. All the humor and good laughs of the last few minutes are gone - and concern begins to shine through.

"I uh... I thought I heard someone." Dean answers unconvincingly, and he looks away from Sam - the moment is gone - and starts the car.

Sam sighs, and looks out his window. Dean takes a peek at his brother's curly head. Throwing the car into reverse, Dean backs the car up and leaves the parking lot. They merge back onto the highway. The car is silent, no music blares from the speakers, but Dean can't bring himself to touch the tape deck after spoiling the fucking mood like that.

They drive for a few minutes in silence. Sam faces forward again, makes an effort to pull himself out of a funk. "That's still mine, by the way." And he snatches the two bills that were resting forgotten on Dean's lap. Dean cracks, and can't help but smile.

"I still say double or nothing." He shoots back, but the mood is instantly lighter.

Sam's been back on the road with Dean for more than a while now, but it still feels like Dean was picking him up from Stanford a few days ago. How did he ever do this without Sam? Four years Sam was at that fancy Ivy league school - _Ivy League schools are in the Northeast states, Dean_ , _Stanford is in California_ \- he hears Sam say - and it feels like it was two hundred years ago, or sometimes all of two seconds.

Dean sees Sam's mouth moving and forces himself to pay attention to the present.

" - so I guess Bobby sent someone else to cover that hunt in Wichita. He wants to know if we can cover that job at Hitomi Plaza."

Dean's heart stutters, and his hands freeze on the wheel. "What?"

Sam is looking at Dean like he just threw up pea soup. "Jesus, Dean... are you okay?"

"What did you say?"

“I said Bobby got a team on the rugaru in Wichita... so we can head to Tucson to check out those corpse mutilations. God, Dean...”

“But you... that’s not...”

That’s not what happened. Hitomi Plaza? Where did that come from? Die Hard? Nakatomi Plaza?

Dean shakes cobwebs from his head and takes a hand off the wheel to rub at his face. His hand drops to his chest and rests for a moment on the comforting weight of the amulet Sam gave him so many years ago. He doesn’t miss how it bangs against his chest during fights, but he has to admit that he felt naked without it the first few months after he dumped it in the -

And that’s wrong too. Months? Trashing the amulet? Where is he even getting these ideas? Was he drugged? Poisoned? Something in the coffee, something injected -

And then Dean isn’t in the Impala anymore, he’s leaning against it in a spacious garage or empty warehouse. Sam is there, but it’s not the Sam sitting across from him at the diner, in the car. He’s older, and there’s no remaining trace of laughter from a near death-by-eggs experience. A blue-eyed man in a trench coat and a kid are staring at Dean nervously, and Dean looks down, sees he’s about to plunge a big ass needle into his arm. Fuck - what is _that_? And it’s in the crook of his arm and he groans involuntarily and his eyes water. He clutches at a wooden stick - a spear - for support. His eyes continue to swim even though the pain is gone, and Dean feels Cas grip his shoulder and ask him something. Cas - how does he know that name, that it belongs to -

_I am an angel of the lord hey assbutt I know our fate rests with you it does present a curious curl in the metaphysics you pray too loud_

Cas.

Dean drops back into the Impala, back on the highway. The amulet is there, Sam is there. But they shouldn’t be there.

"We’re too far away to make it relatively quick, so I guess Bobby sent someone else to cover that hunt in Wichita. He wants to know if we can cover that job in Tucson." Sam finishes again, and Dean stares at Sam like he’s grown a second and third head.

Sam doesn’t notice the look. Dean stares at his brother with his mouth hanging open, and Sam doesn’t bat an eye.

Where is he? He should be in Kansas City. Hitomi Plaza. Michael Central Standard Time.

“Sam, we – “

But Sam is nodding his head, and talking over Dean, “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Probably a ghoul, from what Bobby said. But better to check out the cemetery when we get there anyway. Make sure.” Sam says, responding to something that Dean never said. At least not this Dean, not this time –

“This is kismet. I’m in the same seat.” Someone says from the backseat, and if the Impala wasn’t seemingly steering itself, Dean would have crashed the car into oncoming traffic. Sam takes no notice as Dean swivels in his seat wide-eyed to face the backseat.

Sitting behind Sam is himself in some old suit. No, that’s… and a pain like a headache pounds in Dean’s skull, and more memories float to the surface.

“Michael.” Dean breathes, and there’s suddenly not enough oxygen in the car. Dean turns around frantically, trying to figure out what is happening. Sam is typing away on his phone, the Impala turns smoothly around a bend in the road. “Where am I?”

He doesn’t expect Michael to answer, but he does. “Somewhere south of Utah, I believe. 2006.” And he makes an honest and unnecessary show of looking around, “Dean, don’t you know you shouldn’t drive distracted?”

The events at Hitomi Plaza finish clicking into place, and Dean remembers everything.

“Get out.” Dean orders, tries to sound forceful and calm, but sounds only pissed and disbelieving. “You can’t stay here if I don’t let you.”

Michael leans back comfortably in his seat without replying for a moment. He takes a slow inventory of the backseat, flips open the cooler at his feet. He scans the contents and then shuts it with a distasteful twist of his – Dean’s – lips. “Dean, you know that’s not how it works. Haven’t we been down this road before? You should be thankful that nothing else wriggled through the door I left ajar. Things could have been a lot more complicated for you. At least I take care of my possessions.”

“What did you do to them? Where are they?”

Michael finally meets Dean’s eyes. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, seeing yourself mirror-flipped, in clothes that aren’t yours and look dated and uncomfortable. _And not me,_ Dean thinks to himself. He tries to read the foreign movement of thought behind Michael’s green eyes, sees Michael picking up and inspecting possible lies, possible truths, and not sure which one to share.

“They’re nothing but worms, Dean. But they’re breathing worms.” Michael answers finally. “For now. So be a good boy and settle down in here. You’re kicking up dust.” And his smile chills Dean to the bone, cutting through the small burst of relief at knowing that his family isn’t dead at his own hands.

“Oh, we’ve arrived.” Michael says without waiting for Dean’s response, and he looks around at surroundings that Dean can’t see. His eyes flash up to meet Dean’s gaze. “You should really pay more attention to the road, Dean.” Michael says suddenly. “Didn’t you see the sign a few miles back warning about flash floods?”

And without so much as a displacement of air, Michael is gone. Dean blinks stupidly at the backseat. Sam – this Sam – is on the phone with Bobby, and chats about case details, doodling details on a cocktail napkin. He looks up and gives Dean a small smile, then rolls his eyes as if to say _you know how Bobby can get_. Bewildered, Dean faces forward again and freezes.

A tsunami of epic proportions races towards them on the tarmac, trees ripped from the side of the road, brush swept away from embankments all roiling in the foamy dark tide.

A tsunami. In Arizona.

“Fuck!” Dean yells for no reason at all, and fights the frozen steering wheel. He pulls unsuccessfully on his seat belt, on his car door, on the window.

The last thing he sees before the water smashes into them is Sam laughing at something Bobby said over the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this fic is basically an excuse to write happy Winchester (and soon Cas and Jack) moments. This chapter was going to be longer and switch back to Sam and the others, but this bit came out longer than I anticipated, and more frequent updates > longer chapters? Idk.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and thank you especially to the couple of you that have assured me that the holy oil bit was believable in the previous chapter... I'm very curious how the show is going to handle powering Michael down long enough for the cuffs to work...


	4. Chapter 4

Michael whistles through his teeth when he sees his cell.

The Bunker is empty. Sam sent the order an hour out, and by the time he swung the Impala into the garage, the Bunker is as empty as the day he and Dean found it. As much as Sam itches to sic the Apocalypse Universe hunters on Michael – and god knows, he deserves their wrath with a few extra kicks thrown in. But Michael is currently occupying Dean’s body, and Sam doesn’t want to add to the scars that Michael has a tendency to leave behind.

The cell is a monstrosity. Michael’s prison is covered floor to ceiling with sigils, spell work, symbols, and a seal that looks suspiciously like a tic tac toe game. Every ward and spell found in books, advice from their hunter connections and the first three pages of google search results have gone into making this cell nigh impenetrable. Sam and a graceless Jack spent two sleepless days marking it up. Sam is sure that half of it is unhelpful nonsense, but he would take no chances. He made sure that if he ever got his hands on Michael, he was going to make sure that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Cas prods Michael unnecessarily into the room. After Michael takes a few curious steps towards the center, Sam nicks his finger on his pocket knife, and connects the last seal in the doorway. The warding flashes a brilliant white, blinding Sam, and by the time he’s blinked the burns from his retinas, the warding looks like normal supernatural vandalism again.

Michael eyes the walls critically, but Sam can’t read his expression. He takes a turn around the room. At one point, Sam swears that the archangel is counting numbers down in German. Finally, his brother’s eyes meet his own. “Congratulations, Winchester. You bought yourself two days.” Michael takes a seat on the bunk carefully, as if concerned about messing up the lines on his suit.

Sam makes an honest effort to reign in his temper.

“Maybe three. Depends on how bored I get sifting through your brother’s memories. Bet you 100 American dollars you break first.”

Sam’s mind goes blank for a confused couple of seconds. Then a memory like an echo – Dean driving down a Utah highway, tapping a beat against the steering wheel. _I bet you 100 American dollars that I can pick up the hottest waitress in the next diner._ Sam throwing his head back and laughing. _Deal._

The air leaves Sam’s body in one painful exhale, and Michael smiles, knowing he’s hit his mark.

Michael is already in Dean’s body. He’s already changing his clothes, changing his hair. He’s twisting Dean’s lips into that disturbing close-lipped smile that makes Sam’s skin crawl. And even though Michael crossed the line about 6 miles back, the idea of Michael running rampant around his brother’s mind, shuffling through Dean’s memories hurts like a gut shot.

Cas must see something in Sam’s expression, because he takes a steady step forward, blocking Sam’s view of the cell. “Sam.” Cas cautions in an undertone.

Sam doesn’t wait for the rest of Cas’ warning. He takes a step around Cas and the angel doesn’t move to stop him. “I don’t care who you are, Michael. I don’t care _what_ you are. I don’t even care what your next plan is for Armageddon. I don’t _care._ ” Sam snaps. “I only care about _one_ thing, and that is getting you out of my brother, and making you _wish_ that you could join our universe’s Michael in hell. I hope I’m making myself real fucking clear, because we have faced _significantly_ worse and more dangerous threats than a fussy Archangel in a suit.”

And in a blink, Michael is across the room, right up in Sam’s face. “Believe me, Winchester, when I say that you have faced _nothing_ like me before.” Michael’s face is thunderous, and underneath the innocuous suit, underneath his brother’s face, Sam finally sees _Michael_. The battle-hardened warrior of millennia, the leader of Heaven’s armies who managed to easily dismember an entire _universe_ worth of heavenly defenders, and most of earth’s population to boot. The monster inside Dean is a being that is so theologically powerful, oppressively superior and self-assuredly righteous that Sam’s mind can wrap around itself twice trying to comprehend the enemy in front of him.

Sam doesn’t care.

He takes a step, toes the measly line of his blood preventing Michael from ripping him into atoms. “Do you know what the difference between your universe and mine is, Michael? Do you know why your universe fell?”

Michael’s hooded eyes don’t twitch.

Sam Winchester is fire and brimstone and promise, and his voice is nitrogen. “It didn’t have me in it.”

 

Sam falls heavily on his bed. To say that the day has been a long one would be like saying that Dean has a casual respect for his car.

Sam shuts his eyes, breathes deep, tries to pull his head above water. Sleeplessness and coming down from a hours-long adrenaline rush are taking their toll, but Sam’s thoughts are broiling. His mind returns over and over to the archangel prison, wondering what Michael is doing, wondering if Dean is okay – if he’s really _gone._

He wishes he’d wired up the prison with security cameras. Though he knows himself, and knows he would have watched the feed obsessively. He’d had a brief thought about it months ago, but with all his cross-country road trips tracking down leads on Michael, he hadn’t had the time or any real inclination. To be honest – since they’d gotten Dean back, Sam hadn’t given the prison much thought. He was pretty sure he never even mentioned the archangel prison to Dean, and not just because he was trying to wean his brother off his PTSD-like Michael guilt trip.

Now Sam realizes that their plan might have only worked _because_ he failed to mention it to Dean. Michael would have seen that memory like a glowing beacon in Dean’s mind, and might have tried just a little harder to escape had he known about the angelic lockdown. But they got him. Now they just have to get rid of him.

Shit. He’s tired.

Somehow, Sam sleeps, and he dreams that he and Dean are in an Arizona diner, laughing over a stupid bet until they choke.

 

Jack doesn’t sleep, and he doesn’t even try.

He paces his room forty times. Rearranges his bookshelf twice. He packs and repacks his go bag four and a half times. He tries to pace again, but ends up stepping on a tube of toothpaste that didn’t make it back into his duffle. He stares at the mess for an uncomprehending moment, before he stomps out of the room.

It doesn’t help. He takes his anger with him.

Jack isn’t an angry person. He tries to give the world the benefit of the doubt, he lets things roll off his back. Jack didn’t really _know_ his father, didn’t really see his true colors until the very end. But he catches Sam staring at him sometimes, and knows that he’s looking for a trace of Lucifer. When Sam sees he’s been busted, he doesn’t look away abashed. He smiles back at the question in Jack’s face, and Jack knows he’s passed some sort of test.

But he’s not an angry person. Not normally.

Jack wanders aimlessly around the Bunker, giving the section where Michael is imprisoned a wide berth. Sam and Cas asked him not to go near Michael without them, but Jack didn’t have an inclination to see his uncle. Or his uncle from a different universe. Family is weird.

Jack hears a door shut somewhere near the prison section and freezes. Footsteps echo up the hallway towards him, and he relaxes when he sees Cas’ familiar trench coat through the dim lighting.

Cas isn’t surprised to see him. “You should really get some sleep, Jack.” He intones in a low voice. “I was just moving Garth from the Impala to another cell. I’m concerned that he hasn’t regained consciousness.” Cas has cleaned himself up since they returned to the Bunker, and his face no longer looks like 7% fat ground beef. But Jack has been around Cas long enough to recognize the signs of sorrow and mental exhaustion in the angel’s face.

“I’m sorry about Dean.” Jack says, and Cas looks at Jack hard.

“Why do you say that?” And he gives Jack a soft push on the shoulder, spinning him to walk with Cas back towards their rooms.

“I’m not sure.” Jack says seriously. “I feel like this is my fault somehow. If I hadn’t been taken at the post office, if I had been able to escape, then maybe Dean wouldn’t have been in the same room as Michael, and Michael wouldn’t…”

To his surprise, Cas rolls his eyes. “Your last name may be Kline, Jack, but you are definitely a Winchester. Only a Winchester can come up with such a convoluted and incorrect manner of looking at events to make everything look like his fault. Listen,” and he stops walking – Jack follows suit. “of course Sam and Dean and I would do everything in our power to rescue you from Michael. Of course we would. But do you really thing that if you had evaded capture that we wouldn’t have been in the exact same position? Michael is dangerous, and needs to be stopped. We had the spear, we had Michael’s location. So whether you were driving to Hitomi Plaza with Sam, or already in the building, Michael still would have… nothing would be different right now, Jack.”

Jack nods slowly, needs to process that later. “But it’s not just that, Cas. What you did for me… in Heaven… I – “

“Jack.” Cas interrupts, and looks uncomfortable. “We already talked about this.”

“I think we should tell Sam.”

Cas shakes his head. “I know what I said before, Jack. But do you really think that Sam needs one more person to worry about right now? And think of it this way – with Michael possessing Dean, do you think I’m even going to remotely admit to being happy in the current circumstances?” Cas tries to pass it off lightly, like a joke, but Jack isn’t in the mood. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the walk to his room. He tells Cas good night, and the angel gives him a sad smile before he continues down the hallway to his own room.

Jack grabs the door handle but doesn’t turn it. He closes his eyes, listens to the unnatural quiet of the Bunker. There isn’t the sound of hunters arriving from a night on the road, or cooking up a late meal, brewing a new pot of coffee for all night case research. The silence is unnatural. He hates it.

Jack looks a few doors down, at Dean’s room. He lets go of his door handle, and walks carefully past Sam’s room. Jack pauses at Dean’s door, but pushes his way in before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea.

The light flickers on after a few false starts, and Jack makes a mental note to ask Sam how to change a light bulb. It might be his imagination, but Dean’s room is colder than the hallway. He takes a few tentative steps, and stops.

Dean’s bed is made and the duvet is folded neatly motel-style. Jack knows that Sam and Dean grew up on the road, and tries to picture a young Sam and Dean. Maybe it’s because he was never young, but he can’t seem to imagine anything other than the men they are now.

Jack walks over to Dean’s nightstand. Next to two empty liquor bottles and a couple of fake FBI badges is a stack of photographs. Jack picks them up and takes a seat on Dean’s bed.

The older photos are obviously well-thumbed and folded in ways that make them look like they’ve been stuffed into a wallet for years. Jack flips through the first couple – most of them are the sought-after younger photos of Dean and Sam. Jack pauses at one in particular of an infant Sam being held by toddler Dean. Dean’s grin is wide and toothy, and his tousled blonde hair falls in his face. Jack spends a long time looking at the picture, looking back and forth between the two brothers, and trying to imagine what it would have been like for him if he had been able to grow up with siblings. If he had been able to grow up at all.

There are a few more childhood pictures. Jack’s already seen the one with Mary and a young Dean where their faces take up nearly the entire shot. But he’s always liked it. Jack often forgets that Sam and Dean grew up without their mother for nearly their entire lives. Seeing his own mother in Heaven had been one of the greatest experiences of Jack’s short life, and he wonders how he would feel if The Darkness had been able to raise his own mother from the dead. He’s heard the stories from Dean. But it seems hard to imagine.

Jack flips through the rest of the pictures. Some of them, especially the older ones, are printed on glossy photo paper, but most of the newer ones were clearly printed off a household printer and are lower quality. Still, these are the ones that Jack spends the most time looking at. The pictures show the Sam and Dean and Cas that Jack knows. There’s a shot of them bowling, and Dean is rolling his eyes in exaggerated fashion as Sam high-fives Cas, who must have gotten the strike that lights up the board. There’s a blurry picture of a spread of food on a table, and birthday cake that says “HAPPY BITCH-DAY SAMMY.” The picture after that has a smug Sam smashing a slice of the cake on Dean’s face, who is wearing an atrocious birthday hat with clowns on it. There’s a close up picture of a surprised Cas, who apparently took a picture holding the camera the wrong way around. Jack wonders what moment Cas was actually trying to capture.

Jack goes through them all, pictures of the Impala, of Sam and Cas eating salads on the hood of a car, of Dean and this world’s Charlie Bradbury. Jack finally turns over the last photo, and his breath catches.

It’s a picture of Dean and himself. Dean’s face takes up almost half the shot – the picture was obviously taken selfie-style on his phone. They’re sitting on the bank of a river, abandoned fishing poles on the ground. The picture isn’t great quality, and small marbles of lens flare dot the photo. Dean’s eyes are idiotically wide over a ridiculous, exaggerated grin. Jack is laughing at the flipped image of Dean on the phone, and was clearly in the middle of talking when Dean snapped the picture. That day wasn’t that long ago, but Jack doesn’t remember Dean taking the picture. Hardly surprising, considering that Jack… wasn’t at his best.

Jack was dying then. Still kind of is. But spending a few hours with Dean, driving the Impala, eating greasy burgers on the side of a dusty road… that was the best day of Jack’s life. He doesn’t remember all of that day, but he remembers seeing Dean check his phone for messages from Sam when he thought Jack wasn’t looking, and knew that Dean was itching to get back to the Bunker and join the search for a cure _._ But still - he spent the entire day with Jack, doing all the dumb things that Jack wanted to do – the only reason being that Jack _wanted_ to do it. Jack thumbs the cheap typing paper, and stares hard at the image of Dean. His vision overlays a memory, and he sees a flash of Dean’s eyes blazing bright with Archangel grace, the moment when they realized that Dean was gone, and Michael was back.

Jack feels his eyes water, and quickly puts the photo aside before he can ruin it. He stands from the bed quickly, and by the time he comes back to himself, he’s only a few feet from Michael’s prison door. If he’s planning to confront Michael, he has one last chance to back away, go back to his room, and try and sleep for a few hours.

He takes the last steps and unlocks the door. It’s heavy, and it isn’t easy for him to fully yank it open without his angelic powers.

Michael sits on the bunk exactly where they left him hours before. Jack wasn’t exactly expecting to catch Michael sleeping, but it’s still unnerving to see Michael staring hard at him from across the cell.

Jack glances down at the threshold, making sure that he’s not able to accidentally scrub the seal with his foot, and that Michael hasn’t broken the warding in some way.

Michael breaks the silence. “Did you come to get some familial advice? Or are you going to try and kill me?” Jack is careful not to flinch, but his eyes narrow. “Oh, so he’s angry.” Michael says, amused.

“I wanted to kill you the first time.” Jack says before he can fully understand why he’s even here. It’s the first time he’s talked to Michael since they left Kansas City, and he fully intended to never speak to him again. “I thought that’s what Dean would have wanted, I thought you were too big of a threat to this world for Sam and Cas to ignore. I thought they weren’t trying hard enough to find you back then, because they might be forced to kill Dean to defeat you.” And Jack has to pause there, as emotion swells up in his chest again.

Michael still looks amused, and doesn’t speak for a moment as if seeing if Jack is going to finish his thought. “That’s all true.” He says, “Dean would have ripped me apart from the inside out if he could have. He would have damned himself in a heartbeat. He really despised me, Jack, but not as much as he probably despised himself for saying _yes_.” And he says it like it’s an accomplishment, but Jack can’t think about anything other than the pain that lances through him, hearing Dean talked about in the past tense. “Let’s cut to the chase.” Michael finishes, “You’re here to try and finish me off, is that it?”

“No.” Jack says, and certainty settles in his chest as he realizes that’s true. “No, I’m not here to try and kill you.” He says honestly. “I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Michael raises his eyebrows, “A deal.” He repeats flatly.

“Yes. I will let you go, I’ll break you out of the cell, get you around all the warding in the Bunker, get you out of the cuffs. I’ll let you go free.”

Michael’s expression doesn’t change, but Jack sees interest and gratification behind those old eyes. “A deal implying that you get something in return.”

Jack swallows hard, and can only picture the expression on Sam and Cas’ faces if they knew he was down here, offering to freely unleash Michael on their universe. Again. “If I agree to let you go, you leave Dean. You let Dean go, you find a new vessel, and you never possess him again. Your freedom – for Dean.”

There’s no surprise in Michael’s face, only unfiltered delight. “You really care that much about Dean, do you, Jack? Do you even realize what you’re offering up in exchange for a middle-aged alcoholic that’s never had anything bad happen to him that wasn’t his own foolish doing?” Michael sighs, and picks at a thread on his hem. “I don’t think that any of you are taking me seriously. You think I’m any old villain of the week that can be killed off in 42 minutes with a machete.” All humor fades from Michael’s face, and he suddenly looks very old and very dangerous. “You listen to me, boy.” And he stands up faster than Jack can see, and is across the room like a shot. He is as close to the edge of the seal as he can be, and his hands curl inside the manacles. “You cannot _hold_ me. You cannot _imprison_ me. I am _Michael._ ” His eyes flash bright with grace. “And I have my Sword. There is no deal that can save you, there is no deal that can prevent me from tearing apart this cage with my bare hands, and when I do, I will kill you last. I will make you _watch_ as I rip apart your disgusting family. I will make you see the mistake you made siding with humanity, with Winchesters, over your own grace and blood. I will reduce them to _ash_ at your feet, and then - when you finally understand that you chose the wrong side, I will send you to the Big Empty myself, and we’ll see if half-breed Nephilim get any special treatment from the demons that crawl through that place on their bellies.” The thunder leaves Michael’s eyes, and a trace of that smug humor returns. “And poor Dean. He’s going to feel _so_ let down when he learns that his young protégé was willing to turn his back on everything that he believes in, everything that he was taught. When Dean learns that you were willing to make a _deal_ to save him and damn the world, it’s going to destroy what’s left of him.”

Jack is stunned into silence at the vehemence and the gravity that rained down upon him. He feels like his feet have frozen to the floor, and he will never escape from this threshold, never escape from Michael’s gaze. He -

“So Dean isn’t gone, then.” And Jack is shocked into movement, and turns to see Sam emerge from the shadows of the hallway. Sam takes Jack’s place in the doorframe, and Jack doesn’t even realize he’s taken a few steps back.

Michael doesn’t say anything, but fury and irritation boil behind his expression. He glares at Sam, and Jack finally understands the phrase _if looks could kill._

Jack can’t see Sam’s face, but imagines he would see something similar.

“I know you think you’ve beaten us, that you’ve beaten Dean down. But I know my brother more than I know anyone.” Sam says, and after the threats and fire of their last conversation, Jack is almost dismayed by how calm and clear-minded Sam seems. “I know my brother would never submit to you, and for all your lies about him being _gone,_ I can guarantee that Dean is fighting you every step of the way in his mind, and that you will never have a moment’s rest with Dean in there, and me out here. Jack offered you a good deal, Michael, and it’s too bad that you didn’t take it seriously, that you still underestimate humans. I’d love to introduce you to the others that underestimated Winchesters, but they don’t seem to have a very long life span.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Michael spits, and he takes an unconscious step back. “I have Dean so turned around in his own mind, drowning in his memories, that he will never be able to find his way back to the light.”

“Guess I’ll have to find him myself, then.” And Sam grabs the heavy iron door with one hand and calmly slams it shut in Michael’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who would have thought that my longest chapter to date would be a Jack chapter?? Not me. Sorry Wateroflife. 
> 
> Also - I tried to rewatch the bit of the episode where Dean and Jack went fishing, to make sure I wasn't missing some weird detail, but the CW website wouldn't play that section of the ep for some reason and I didn't really care enough to keep trying. We'll just consider this fic part of the Possibly Incorrect Fishing AU.
> 
> As always, thank you very, very much for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s hand taps a staccato beat on the side of the Impala, but any sound is lost to the roar of an engine going 10 miles per hour over what she can handle. Dean doesn’t say anything.

Some things are fixable. Some things aren’t.

Jack is focused on the road, and his eyebrows narrow carefully at the view ahead. “Is that a police car?” He asks, gesturing with his chin. His hands remain firmly on 10 and 2.

Dean squints. “Nah. Junk car ditched weeks ago. No need to pump the brakes.”

Jack relaxes slightly, and Dean can’t blame him. The kid has had an unlucky streak that almost puts his and Sam’s wrap sheet to shame. Dean’s had cell phones longer than Jack’s been alive, which is saying something, but Jack still can’t seem to catch a break – a speeding ticket would be the fucking cherry on the funeral pyre.

They’d need a funeral pyre. Hunter’s burial. For Jack.

Shit.

Dean makes sure Jack’s eyes are on the road before he checks his phone for an update. No new text or missed call notification blink at him, and he slides his phone back in his pocket with a sigh.

“Dean?”

“Mm?”

“Did your father teach you to drive?”

“Did… uh, yeah. He did. Taught me when I was 14.” Dean answers, and he has to stop there. For a moment, his vision flip flops, and it’s him in the driver’s seat, and his dad next to him. John’s distracted as always, flipping through his journal. He only takes his eyes off the scribbles when the car makes a sudden acceleration or deceleration. His eyes would dart to the road or to his oldest son, deciding if it’s important enough for him to intervene with praise or snap out with something derogatory. Dean never got the hang of reading his dad’s expression, but he always hung on his every word.

Dean realizes that Jack is waiting for him to say something more. “Yeah, I learned from my dad right where you’re sitting. Don’t know if I’ve ever said – but this car has been in the family longer than I have.”

Jack nods seriously, and Dean hides his smile. Jack always looks like he needs more processing power than the Bunker’s servers. Dean forgets sometimes that all of this is new to Jack. Driving, hunting, even just normal human things, like buying groceries or taking a tequila shot. But Jack soaks it all up, really tries to understand even the smallest minutia or detail.

Dean remembers very clearly the day that Jack was “born.” It took him a long time to understand that Jack wasn’t a monster, to come to terms with the idea that Jack takes in everything he sees, but only lets the best parts out. Dean is distrustful, and he can’t say he considers that a character flaw. But even he was won over by Jack’s… earnestness. His genuine desire to do the right thing and to help people. Dean’s always _helped_ people through hunting, but somewhere along the way, he forgot why. He’s been a hunter his entire life, and at one point – Dean doesn’t know when, exactly – he just fell into the motions. But Jack is young and still learning, and his motivation is something clean - hunting monsters to save _people._ Jack reminds Dean that every case tallied in the win column is really another person that gets to sleep another night, or another ten thousand nights.

Somehow Dean forgot that.

“My dad wasn’t the easiest guy to get to know.” Dean continues, figures that he owes Jack more. “Sam and I got to meet him before… well, before we were born. Long story. Really not that weird compared to other shit we’ve done. But we met him before our mom died. And he was really different. He was a mechanic, he wasn’t all twisted up in the hunting game until… well, until _after._ ” Dean pauses to recollect his thoughts. He thinks about John often, but he hasn’t articulated his thoughts in a long time.

Jack fills the silence, “Sam told me a little about your dad.”

And Dean has to raise his eyebrows at that. “Sam?” He asks, disbelieving. “Sam talked to you about _our_ dad?”

Jack nods, and slows the car down to take it around a turn. “It was after you killed Lucifer. I think Sam thought that it would help me come to terms with losing my father, since your dad is also gone.” Jack looks thoughtful, but Dean’s stomach twists into uncomfortable knots. Between being possessed by Michael and the ensuing fallout, Dean hasn’t really processed that it was true – he killed Jack’s dad. And even though Dean would pick up that knife a thousand more times for what that son of a bitch did to his family – did to _Sam_ – he does have to reconcile that he didn’t just kill the devil – he killed a father.

Jack doesn’t look over at Dean, but he must sense the change in mood. “I know why you did what you did, Dean. I know why you killed my father, and if you hadn’t been there, then Sam and I would both be dead. I’m… grateful to you. To both of you, and to Cas. Sam told me some stories about your dad –“

Dean’s mood is still recovering from its brief flatline, but even he has to roll his eyes in disbelief. “I’m sure _all_ good things.”

“Some good things. Some bad too. I think he wanted me to know that there’s good and bad in everyone, even family, and that it’s important to remember that… that humans, or demons or monsters… everyone is complicated. Sam told me that your dad didn’t make your lives easy, and that they didn’t understand each other all the time. But he said that he loved your dad, and knows that he was doing the best he could.”

Dean knows Jack and Sam well enough to know that Jack might be stretching Sam’s words a little to make Dean feel better, but Dean doesn’t call him out it.

“I’m sorry about the way things went down with your dad, Jack. I know you wanted to give him another chance, and I can… respect that. I understand what it’s like to look the other way instead of seeing something… irredeemable in someone that’s important to you. But there’s something else I want you to understand, and that’s that people don’t need to be blood to be family. My dad was a big deal to me, especially when I was your age. Or – “ he corrects, catching Jack’s snort, “or, you know, when I was growing up. He was my hero, and he was my dad, but he wasn’t my only father. This world’s Bobby Singer wasn’t blood, but he was family. That cranky son of a bitch took care of me and Sam, and we didn’t always thank him for that – but I hope that in the end, he knew that he was as important to us as our own dad.”

Dean is a little uncomfortable digging into old wounds, and looks out the window. Jack is silent, and whether he’s taking meaning from the conversation, or trying to reconcile two differing descriptions of Bobby Singer, Dean isn’t sure.

This is fucking hard. Dean’s lost a lot of people over the years. More than he can count. Most of the deaths were sudden and he didn’t exactly have time to prepare for the loss. He didn’t have a chance to have father-son chats – and he can’t deny that’s pretty much what this whole day is about – to teach a great kid how to drive, to pull over and eat a burger off the side of the highway, and think about how moments like these don’t come around often enough.

“I’m glad that I got to choose my family.” Jack says suddenly, in that calm, annoyingly thoughtful tone. “My life could have been a lot different and a lot worse if you and Cas and Sam hadn’t been there for me.” Jack takes his eyes off the road and looks at Dean, and Dean can’t even crack a bitchy Sam jab about safety first. “I really appreciate all of you working to save me, but I don’t –“

“Jack, Jack, Jack –“ Dean cuts in quickly. His vision swims for a moment, not like tears, but from that weird vision problem he’s been having recently. “You’re going to be fine. Sam and Cas are running down that shaman lead, and Lily Sunder will pull a miracle out of her decrepit – “ Dean blanks out suddenly. Jack eases the car around a turn, the same turn that Dean could have sworn Jack took a few minutes before.

“Who’s Lily Sunder?” Jack asks.

Dean blinks hard at the road. “What?” Lily Sunder? Where did that come from? And in his mind’s eye, he sees a hot red-head… an eye patch, a vendetta against angels… but he can also see a shock of white hair… an older voice…

 _My magic draws power from the soul, the human soul. You can_ save _him._

Jack takes the same turn around the bend in the road. Dean’s vision swims.

Jack died. He died, he went to heaven, he came back. Dean remembers. He remembers…

And like blue-tinged lightning: the Impala trunk slams shut in Hitomi Plaza. White knuckles clench on a spear. A woman smiles. And Dean drowns.

Jack takes the car around a bend in the road.

A spike of pain lights up Dean’s head, and his hands fly up to his temples, trying to remember it all, trying to remember where he is. And the pain is worse – like something is trying to block the memories behind that wall of pain and discomfort, but Dean Winchester doesn’t give up when the going gets tough and the walls slam down.

And like a dam bursting, the rest of the memories raze Dean’s head like a natural disaster, but he can remember enough, and then he remembers it all.

Jack takes the car around a bend in the road.

The sound of wings flapping, and Dean turns in his seat. He knows who to expect this time, and it isn’t a blue-eyed angel in a trench coat. Michael smiles at him genially from the back seat. “That warms the heart, Dean. I’m surprised that Jack hasn’t taken more of a shine to me considering the similarities are remarkable.”

“Fuck off.” Dean says, and he turns his back on the archangel. He tries the door handle, but isn’t surprised to find it frozen.

“Wouldn’t it be more comfortable for everyone if you just _stayed_ in the good memories, Dean? Do you have to fight me every time? The squirming is exhausting, for both of us. You can’t honestly tell me you preferred our arrangement _before._ ”

Dean doesn’t turn around, but he knows Michael can see his shudder, and he doesn’t need the rearview mirror to know that he wants to wipe the smirk off Michael’s – his own – face. But he does remember the darkness from before, drowning in the emptiness of his mind almost like it was a physical sensation. He remembers those weeks all too well, especially the sharp fear of wanting to find the way out, to escape, and knowing somehow that if he struck off in the wrong direction, he might be lost in his own mind forever.

He can’t do that again.

“Come on, Dean. We can be reasonable about this. We can be a team. We accomplished some pretty spectacular things the last time we worked together.”

And Dean actually turns around to glare at Michael then, and it was a mistake – it only makes him angrier to see that stupid suit, that mirror-flipped face. “I remember me toasting your brother, and then you breaking your word and using my sweet gams as your own personal getaway sticks.”

Michael actually rolls his eyes. “Hardly the case. I do have wings.”

Dean faces forward in his seat again, incensed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have an apocalypse to get back to?”

“Mm.” And Michael snaps his fingers, and Dean blinks and the setting has changed.

It’s the same day, he remembers all of this. He stands on a bank of a lazy river, the water is calm but steady. Distant laughter rises above the sounds of rushing water, and Dean squints upstream. He isn’t close, but he sees Jack and himself, pretending like they know how to fish. This is later in his memory, only a few hours before he and Jack returned home to the Bunker and tried the disastrous shaman spell that only made things worse. Dean wishes he could walk over and warn them, but he knows fuck all good it will do.

The familiar flap of wings sounds at his side, and Michael is back. He’s also watching the scene playing out further up the bank. “I just got back from a little chat with Jack, actually.”

Dean bristles.

“And your brother.”

“Awesome.” Dean says, and carefully keeps his eyes from meeting the angel’s. “Did he give you my French onion soup recipe?”

“They tried to make a deal.”

Dean’s head snaps around, and he tries to read Michael. It’s disjointing, studying your own features and not recognizing the expressions. Michael smiles lightly, still looking upstream.

“No. They didn’t.” Dean says finally, and turns his back between him and the angel, and starts to walk downstream. Michael falls into step.

“I can assure you they did. Jack’s idea, really. In exchange for me letting you go, they turn a blind eye. We go separate ways, and I suppose you all enjoy what little time you have left until I raze this planet with my immortal army. Some would call that an even trade. One pathetic human for all the rest of them. Hm…. Maybe not so even, then.”

Sam cutting a deal. Dean can’t say that it was completely out of character for Sam. He would be an idiot if he didn’t remember all the deals, all the bad trades they’d made in exchange for each other. But this is different – Sam knows better. No matter what, Sam wouldn’t let Michael go if it meant -

“Holy shit.” Dean says, “The holy oil.”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “Come again?”

Dean rounds on the archangel. “The holy oil injection… it worked, didn’t it? It hit you like a bad acid trip in Tijuana, and they got the jump on you. Is that why you’re here? Trying to kill some time on lockdown?”

Michael’s eyes flash blue and his face contorts for half an instant before his expression smooths over. So fast, Dean almost misses it. Almost.

Dean laughs. “Bingo.”

Michael sighs, shakes his head. “Well. I can’t say I didn’t try to appeal to your better nature.” And Dean is thrown backwards like a car has slammed into him. A few seconds in the air give him enough time to think _shit_ before his back collides with something and he lands on the ground in a heap. His leg is twisted under him, and he’s had enough bad spills to know when his leg is broken.

“Fuck.” He coughs, and tries to pull himself onto his feet. He only makes it to a painful crouch when Michael is in his face. His hand fists in Dean’s jacket, and Dean is lifted and slammed back against the tree he was thrown against.

“When you and your brother appeared in my universe, I thought that my father was playing some kind of game.” Michael says calmly, and uses his free hand to dust off some dirt on his lapel. “The Michael Sword. _My_ true vessel. You cannot comprehend the levels of divine intervention that went into ensuring the births of you and your brother, and in the end… all _wasted_.” And he shakes his head like Dean has committed some minor, disappointing offense. “And so, when I first laid eyes on you, I thought… surely… this is a test. A falsehood from _God._ I believed he was punishing me, leading me to temptation and smiting me down. His original plan, presented to me like a church tithe. The culmination of eons of divine involvement into creating my perfect vessel that would finally allow me to achieve my true purpose – defeating my brother, overthrowing the earth, ruling Heaven… and once I was so close to my goal, he dangles _you_ in front of me. _You_ who couldn’t exist in that world. And then,” and he slams Dean back against the tree, and Dean feels warmth trickle down the back of his neck, “You offered yourself up like spare change, and again, I wondered if this was all some sadistic trap laid down by my Father. You have set in motion events that you have no chance of stopping. You traded the fate of your entire universe for the sake of rescuing your brother and my nephew. Look me in the eyes, Dean Winchester.” And his eyes snap blue with grace before fading back to green. “You can spout your usual nonsense, your snappy wit, your half-baked banter. You are a fool, Dean, but you cannot be so stupid as to believe that I would make and honor a deal with you. I owe you nothing. You exist for _me._ ”

“Are you – “ Dean coughs, and bright red spots of blood flick onto Michael’s coat. “are you flirting with me?”

Dean’s head snaps back when Michael’s fist collides with his face, and though his vision tunnels and his face feels 10 percent less pretty, he’s proud he was able to get a rise out of the archangel. Inspiring people into physical violence is a Winchester house specialty, and Dean is glad he hasn’t lost his touch. His vision returns – who could lose consciousness in their own conscious – and Dean feels water lick at his ankles. The river’s water level is rising. It’s already flooded the bank, and is steadily climbing up towards the tree line.

“Don’t you get tired of the same tricks?” Dean slurs, and Michael drops him. Dean slides gracelessly against the tree, and lands ass first in the rising waters. His face throbs and he can’t see out of his left eye.

Michael looms over him, millennia of rage and battle hidden behind green eyes. Then Michael’s head snaps up, as if hearing or seeing something that Dean can’t. “Excuse me a moment, Dean. Won’t be long.”

Dean doesn’t make an attempt to stand as the water rises to his chest level. “Sorry. Visitation hours are over.”

Michael is gone before the flood swallows Dean up.

 

“I suppose it’s possible.” Cas admits, but his expression implies it’s anything but.

Sam, Jack and Cas sit at the head of the table in the Bunker’s main room. Sam remembers the last time three of them sat around the table, toasting to Jack’s memory. He doesn’t like the parallels.

“Look,” Sam says, “I’m up for any other ideas. But we know that _this_ works, and assuming Michael is telling the truth, we don’t have time to look for alternatives.”

Cas sighs. “I know, Sam. I just… I don’t like the risks.”

And Sam understands that – of course he does. He just doesn’t care. Cas’ eyes track Sam nervously as he stands and approaches the cart holding his only idea and their only plan.

On the cart wheeled up from one of the Bunker’s many storage rooms is Toni Bevell’s device once used to sync Dean and Mary’s brain waves. Electrodes hang off the cart from where they were dislodged during transport, and one screen that looks important is cracked. Sam can’t say that he has a lot of faith in something that Bevell cobbled together in 25 minutes using early 20th century parts just lying around, but he’s willing to try anything.

Jack’s eyes narrow at the machine, and Sam can’t tell if he’s studying it or seeing if it will explode under his gaze. “What does this do, exactly?”

Sam picks up one of the twin empty syringes on the cart and fiddles with the stopper. He imagines the giant needle plunging into Dean’s and his mother’s neck, and again remembers Dean’s plan with the holy oil injection. His brother’s final Hail Mary plan that was the only reason Michael was currently locked up tight, and Kansas City still standing.

“Sam?”

“Uh – right, sorry.” Sam drops the syringe back on the cart. “A few years ago, a British Men of Letters agent made and used this device to sync Dean’s and my mom’s delta waves, and let Dean enter our mom’s mind, specifically into her memories. If we can use the machine on Michael, then maybe we can find Dean in there somewhere. Make sure he’s… okay.” He doesn’t say what they’re all thinking. He doesn’t say _make sure he’s alive._

“That sounds – “

“Too good to be true?” Cas finishes, and his disapproving eyes meet Sam’s. “That’s because it is. This isn’t just Dean we’re talking about. This is Michael, an Archangel. Even assuming Dean’s brain chemistry works the same under archangel possession, Dean and Mary were injected with a hypnotic sedative serum that synced their brain waves to create the psychic link. The effect of the hypnotic agent would be completely useless on Michael, let alone solving the issue of injecting him in the first place, and we – “

“And that’s where you come in, Cas.” And Sam raps a knuckle on the table. “You’ve always been on the same wavelength as Dean.” Cas frowns, but Sam presses on. “We won’t use the sedative. We’ll have to trust that the archangel restraints that we made will hold, and you’ll have to force the psychic link.”

“Even assuming that I’m able to accomplish such a miracle, there are even worse dangers to consider. It’s not just Dean in there right now, Sam. It’s _Michael_. Michael is not going to make it easy to find Dean, and he’s not going to give you free reign. What if he traps you in there? What if – “

“We can play the ‘what if’ game until the clock runs out, Cas. I need you on this. Please.”

Cas makes a gruff sound deep in his throat, and rubs his face with his hands. “As Dean would say, this is a five step plan and ten parts crazy. We cannot assume that any of this will work, we need to –“

“Cas.” Jack interrupts, and both Sam and Cas look at Jack, surprised. “We need to help Dean. We have to try.”

Cas is silent for a moment. He studies Jack hard, gives the machine a reproachful look, then meets Sam’s eyes again. “We have to try.” He agrees, “Ten parts crazy it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a fuckin slog. I'm still not super happy with it, but I've postponed updating long enough. I think this chapter just needed to set up a few things for the rest of the fic, and ended up being... idk, boring?? I had such high hopes for the Dean/Jack good memory and it ended up being kind of eh. Next update will be out quicker, and won't be so lame.
> 
> As always - thanks for reading, and thanks for your comments!


	6. Chapter 6

Dean’s back hits the ground with a wet thump, and he feels cool mud squish against his neck. It isn’t pleasant. He sucks in a gasp of air to get his lungs going again, and then scrambles to fend off the vampire that’s closing in for the kill.

“Come on – “ Dean chokes, “we can work something out.”

The vampire shakes his head, and his eyes flash in the dim light that manages to trickle down through the thick tree cover. “You’re going to pay for what you did, Dean. I will see to it.”

Dean has made it up to a sitting position, and extends his hands to show he isn’t going to fight back. “Listen – “

The tattered and dirty arms of a once pristine trench coat appear behind the vamp, and Cas grapples with the angry monster. The vampire twists and spits in his grasp, clawing at the arms in an attempt to get to Dean. Cas doesn’t give an inch.

Dean’s hands drop to his sides, and he leans back on them casually. “Benny, no one is going to want to play two truths and a lie with you if you’re going to lose your mind every time.”

Benny Lafitte taps out and Cas drops his grip. Benny still looks pissed, but some of that old Louisiana good humor creeps back into his expression. “It’s cheating, is all, Dean. You’re taking advantage of the credulity of a poor man that’s been out of the game too long.”

Dean shrugs, and accepts Benny’s stretched hand to pull himself to his feet. “It’s not my fault that you didn’t think hoverboards are real. But it is your fault that you didn’t believe I could ride one like a goddamn champ.”

Benny shakes his head, and straightens his shirt from where it bunched around his midriff after he shoved Dean backwards off the log. “I choose the next game we play. Your games are intended to puzzle and confuse me.”

“I’m in agreement with the abomination.” Cas admits gravely, and turns back towards the small fire pit. Two skewered rat creatures drip greasy fat into the flames.

“And I am in awe.” Benny says, flapping a hand to his forehead like a fanged southern belle. “I declare that Castiel is cultivating a soft spot for this old vamp.”

Dean slaps Benny on the shoulder as he passes, and drops down on the log. His jacket is caked with mud and other things he doesn’t want to think about, but he hasn’t laughed that hard since he entered Purgatory some weeks ago. Everyday has been a mess of survival – finding supplies, fending off attacks, traveling slowly towards the exit that Dean half thinks Benny made up. In his low moments, he can’t stop himself from dwelling on the world he left behind – the father figure they said their peace over, the brother he isn’t sure is still alive. But he can’t help but admit to himself that Purgatory has some quality he was missing. It was a place he didn’t have to _pretend_ in. He doesn’t need to flash fake badges, hustle pool for motel money, or take his turn ironing out the old fed threads. He can kill monsters in the open, and rely on his companions without worrying that they’re screwing a demon or drinking demon blood. He doesn’t miss _that_.

He does miss booze, though.

Fuck, he misses booze.

Dean starts, and realizes that he’s been silent and staring at the fire for probably a few minutes too long. Cas and Benny are exchanging glances. Dean shakes the cobwebs from his mind, and rubs his hands together. “When’s the grub ready? I’m so hungry, I could eat a vamp.”

 

Michael hardly gives them a glance when they enter his cell, but he does arch an eyebrow when they unlock the manacles. They fall to the stone floor with a definite thud.

“Plan B? Or – what are we on by now? Plan N for Not worth the effort?” Michael drawls. Then he sees the object tightly clenched in Sam’s hands and his eyes narrow. “Now that’s something interesting.”

Cursed chains. Sam has no idea if they’re even going to work. They have a million and one types of restraints in the Bunker’s storage rooms. Cas, Jack and Sam went through cabinet by cabinet, bin by bin. One storage receptacle was a large, impressive-looking wooden chest that seemed like something found at the bottom of an ocean containing a dead pirate’s treasure. When Cas finally popped off the lock, they were dismayed to see that the chest contained only a wrinkled note that read “need to order more. -KM”

They hit their big break when they finally found a trunk stuffed in the corner of one of the Bunker’s cells. Inside were sinister-looking restraints, manacles, chains, the works. They tore through the entire box. Jack and Sam untangled the mess while Cas – their resident angel expert – inspected each and every article in the box. Some he weighed hopefully in his hand, some he immediately cast aside as useless. Once, Sam swears he saw Cas lick a set of burnished copper manacles, but Cas denied it immediately and sent Sam out to check on Garth, who was still laid out unconscious.

They had almost cleared the entire trunk, when they came across their first promising lead. The bottom of the trunk was more organized than the junk that had been thrown on top over years of mismanagement. The last items are categorized and labeled, though seemingly more useless.

Sam throws down the fourth rope he’s inspected. “Come on – ‘for ghosts – doesn’t work’ It… it’s _rope_ , of course it doesn’t work.” He groans and goes in for another dive into the trunk. He pulls out a handful of what looks like braided human hair and drops it on the floor in disgust. “Gross.” He mutters to himself. They’ve been down here for probably only half an hour, but it feels like it’s been days. The room is getting stuffy. Sam sheds his jacket, and tosses the bundled canvas at the door. The sound of radio interference ripples through the room, and everyone freezes.

“Oh – sorry.” Sam says quickly, and crosses the room to grab the jacket. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out a small, plastic device.

“Is that…” Jack squints at the object in Sam’s hand, “is that a baby monitor?”

Embarrassed, Sam sets the monitor on top of the jacket and comes back to sit next to Jack. “Uh… yes? Just in case Michael decides to – “

“Cry?” Jack supplies.

“Or something.” Sam finishes lamely. Cas turns back to the mass of cursed ribbons he’d been inspecting, apparently without an opinion regarding Sam using a baby monitor to keep tabs on their apocalypse-prone house guest.

A few minutes pass. Jack suddenly makes a sound of exclamation deep in his throat. Sam and Cas look up instantly. “I think I have something.” Jack says, and pushes over a silver pair of cuffs towards Cas. Cas takes them gingerly in his hands. He frowns for a moment, and flips the label over. “’Saint-Blessed.’” He reads. He looks the cuffs over for another moment, before he tosses them back in the box.

“It won’t work. Michael is an archangel, one of God’s chosen. Nearly the definition of _blessed_. I cannot conceive of a holy relic that would contain him.”

Sam hasn’t slept well for weeks, and the exhaustion is starting to wear down on him. But something that Cas says strikes a chord in him. “What about a _cursed_ item?”

Cas’ blank face turns thoughtful and he considers Sam’s idea. “Are you thinking of something in particular?”

Sam shakes his head. “We have an entire room of cursed items that Dean and I couldn’t figure out how to destroy. _Off-limits._ ” He adds, giving Jack a significant look. “There has to be something in there that would work on angels.”

They leave the mess as it is. Sam scoops up his jacket and yes – the _baby monitor_ as they head to the deepest part of the Bunker. It’s cooler down here, further into the earth, and further from the Bunker’s life support and central heating. Sam has to put a shoulder hard into the door to finally bang it clear of the frame, which is beginning to warp from moisture. Sam is just happy that the light still works as it flicker to life, illuminating the room.

There’s not an _unreasonable_ number of objects in the room. Sam and Dean have found that good old lighter fluid and a match will usually take care of most cursed objects, but there’s always going to be some objects above their paygrade. It’s not like they _hoard_ them on purpose, so there’s really no reason for Cas to turn around with _that_ look and say, “Really, Sam?”

Sam shrugs.

“What am I supposed to do here? Walk around and touch everything and see what hits back?”

Sam shrugs. And tries to look professional.

Cas sighs, and turns back to face the room. “ _Winchesters_.”

 

It’s the 37th object that finally _hits back_. Sam is fiddling with the baby monitor, Jack is making sandwiches after Sam and Cas banished him from the cursed object room. There’s a delicate balance of angel grace and human soul keeping Jack’s heart pumping, and Sam and Cas aren’t willing to take a chance on a cursed object messing that up. Hence, sandwiches.

Sam twists the volume button right as Cas picks up the 37th cursed object and jumps when the angel suddenly curses loudly in a foreign language. There’s a clanking sound as metal hits the floor. Sam rushes towards Cas, spins his friend around. Cas’ face is creased in pain, and one hand is cradled against his chest. Sam grips Cas’ shoulder in a silent question, and when the angel nods gruffly, Sam looks down at the cursed object. For once, luck is on their side. Sam was worried that a viable cursed object would end up being ballet shoes again, or a book. Maybe something metal they’d have to melt down into something usable. But it’s a length of chain. It doesn’t look imposing, but looks sturdy enough to tow a car. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam leans down to pick it up, but Cas’ hand darts out and wraps around Sam’s forearm with a steel grip.

“Ow.” Sam says flatly, but gets the idea, and his hand drops to the side.

“Let me look at it.” Cas says, and bends down to take a closer look. He doesn’t make another attempt to touch it. The chain is bright, shining silver, like one of the angel blades. A lot of the cursed objects in the room are grimy – shockingly, no one wanted to take on the task of cleaning down here – but the chain is clean, aside from a small section a few inches long that’s now tarnished. To Sam’s amazement, the section slowly melts back into a shiny alloy. Cas grabs a cursed fire poker – don’t ask – and uses it to maneuver the chain so he can see more. As the metal is poked, flickering blue sigils ripple into view along the length. Sam can’t make out the writing – it doesn’t look exactly like Enochian, but Cas seems to understand the lettering. He drops the poker, and it rolls under a piano.

“You can pick it up.” He intones, but takes a step away as he says it.

Nervously, Sam reaches out and his fingers close on the metal. It’s warm to the touch, which Sam finds unnerving, since the room is chilly. The sigils continue to ripple near the sections Sam has clenched in his hand. “What is it?”

“It’s safe.” Cas assures him, though doesn’t take a step closer. “From the sigils, it seems that this was intended as a way to secure an angel, specifically Gabriel. Though it should still work on Michael. It certainly works on me.” He adds, and though Cas keeps his hand clenched, Sam can see the bright pink of a burn in the curl of Cas’ fist.

“It won’t… kill Michael, will it?” Sam asks, glancing distastefully at the object that wounded Cas.

Cas shakes his head. “Michael is much more powerful. But I don’t believe he’ll be able to break the chains. The sigils are a crude Sumerian-Enochian hybrid language, so it’s hard to tell exactly how it works, but I cannot argue against its effectiveness.”

Sam studies the etchings again, seeing how they brighten and dim as his hands travel their length. It’s fascinating. Sam is curious how the Men of Letters were able to create it – if it even was them – since it doesn’t seem like they believed angels were a genuine threat. Sam wonders if they’d ever been used to contain Gabriel, and is regretful that he’ll never have a chance to ask him.

Sam nods towards the door, and the pair step carefully around fallen cursed objects as they head towards the exit.

 “Well, at least we have another way of containing Michael if the warding in the prison cell fails.”

Cas’ expression is solemn. “Possibly. Though when have we ever been so lucky?”

Sam’s grip tightens on the metal. “Come on, Cas, you know us. When do we _not_ press our luck?”

 

Sam has to believe that it’s the warding on the walls that keep Michael from putting up a fight, and not that he considers the three of them hardly a threat. It’s better than believing that Michael is letting them secure him in cursed chains because he knows he can escape as soon as they step over the warding.

The chains work. The moment they come into contact with Michael, the dull lighting flares brightly, and the bright silver metal seems to tarnish. Sam assures himself that it doesn’t seem like it’s in danger of corroding, and finishes helping Cas secure the bonds. Michael bares his teeth for a moment, briefly irritated and mildly uncomfortable, but doesn’t seem to suffer from any major adverse effects.

Sam wishes he could enjoy that a little.

Cas places a hand on Michael’s back and propels him forward towards the prison door. Sam is already on his knees, scraping off a small section of the warding with a knife. The sigils in the room flare for half a second, before fading back to their usual color. Sam is unnerved.

“Let’s go.”

 

When they enter the main room of the Bunker, Sam notices Michael’s eye catches on one of the pillars, and he smiles to himself. Sam shivers, realizing like a hard slap to the face that this is technically the room where Dean finally said yes to Michael. After fighting their destiny as archangel vessels for years, Sam still can’t fully believe that Dean let Michael in. And worse – he let Michael in so could save Jack and himself.

They adjust Michael’s chains slightly to keep him secured to one of the conference table’s chairs. Though – Sam supposes – if Michael could break through the chains, the old wooden chair probably wouldn’t be much of an obstacle. But Sam has been surprised by countermeasures in the Bunker before.

Michael looks around, but his eyes finally land on Bevell’s device. Sam didn’t make an attempt to hide it. Michael would see it eventually, and if he really had done a deep dive through Dean’s memories, he would know its purpose.

“So, this is the plan?” Michael says, and he actually sounds a little disappointed. “What’s the best-case scenario here, gentlemen? Dean has already tried kicking me out. It’s not that simple.”

“If Dean knows you’re in there – “

Michael throws his head back and laughs. “Dean _knows_ I’m in there. Trust me.”

Sam clamps his mouth shut, and feels his pulse beat angrily in his throat. He nods at Cas, and the angel picks up the electrodes to fasten onto Michael. Jack comes to help Sam fix the electrodes onto his own temple. Jack’s face is pale, and his jaw is tense. Sam tries to smile reassuringly at Jack, and Jack tries to smile back, but his expression is wan and anxious.

Michael obligingly holds still as Cas sticks the electrodes in place. His eyes skim over the machine without a drop of curiosity. He meets Sam’s gaze. “Do you know how many times Dean has realized what’s actually happening? That he’s trapped inside his own head?”

Sam says nothing.

“Good guess. 286 times. 286 times he’s tried to fight me off, 286 times I’ve drowned him. I’m trying them all, I’ll find the memory that _sticks_.” His expression is thunderous, “I have all the time in the world. I gave him a chance to be cooperative, a chance to be an asset. I think I broke his leg in that memory, before I drowned him in a river.” He shakes his head sadly. “It’s hard to keep track sometimes. Dean is a fool. He should have learned by now that it’s easier to go with the tide than get worn down beneath the waves. He’ll learn that eventually. They always do.” Michael pantomimes a regretful expression. Sam never breaks eye contact with the archangel, though his fists are clenched tightly under the table.

“You don’t know Dean.”

Michael smiles at Sam, “To the contrary, I know Dean better than anyone. I _am_ Dean.” And he gives them such a classic, trademarked Dean wink, that Sam feels a physical pain in his chest.

“Alright,” Michael says, and if he’s disappointed that he couldn’t get a rise out of anyone, he doesn’t show it. “Let’s see how far you can go. You three are forgetting something awfully important, and it would be a shame if you ran out of time to try your plan.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jack says sharply, but Sam knows before the words are out of Jack’s mouth that Michael won’t elaborate, that he won’t do anything more than smile agreeably.

“Sam.” Cas intones, and Sam finally tears his eyes away from the archangel across the table.

Cas’ hand drops to Sam’s shoulder and his grip tightens. There’s a question in his eyes. Sam takes a breath. He nods at Jack, and Jack flips the on switch on the machine. Sam doesn’t immediately feel anything different, but if he focuses, he can feel an odd tingling in his scalp.

“Ready?” Cas asks.

Of course Sam isn’t ready. He’s sitting across the table from a murderous archangel possessing his older brother, with only a few bits of cursed metal and the length of the table separating them. He’s face-to-face with _another_ apocalypse, this time one he has to take on without Dean, against an opponent that he has no idea how to fight, and has no clue what the next day is going to bring. He’s looking at a clock that’s ticking towards certain death, towards the end of the world, and his only current plan is just to make sure that Dean is… alive? Not dead? What a low bar, compared to the other miracles they’ve pulled out of their ass. Their lives have literally become the definition of _one day at a time_.

But… at the same time, Sam is hopeful. He has to admit – for a moment, he actually believed that Michael had successfully subdued Dean, and that Dean was really _gone_ – whatever that means in the context of archangel possession. Michael may be trying to rile Sam up with all his talk of drowning and beating Dean down – but Sam focuses on what that really means: Dean is _here_ , Dean is fighting. Sam has faith in Dean, and he trusts their connection will help him track Dean down, no matter what. They’ve always found each other before.

“Do it.” Sam says. Castiel’s grip tightens, and Sam defiantly meets green eyes until the moment he finally loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter got way too bogged down in me needing to prove that Sam and co. found something that would successfully subdue Michael. Like this whole chapter could have been "they tied Michael to a chair" and that could have been the end of it. Oh well. At least it didn't take me four days to update.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s like being dead, except Cas is there for some reason.

Sam is on his feet, surrounded by absolute, smothering darkness. Last thing he remembered, he was sitting in the Bunker losing a staring contest with an archangel.

“This can’t be right.” Sam says, and the sound is snatched away into the abyss. Cas is looking around. “Where are we?”

“Dean’s mind.” Cas replies simply.

No shit.

“But where’s Dean?” Sam insists, and tries to take a few steps in one direction. He doesn’t feel like he’s moved at all, but Cas is now a few extra feet away. Cas is still squinting off into the distance, and Sam wonders if the angel can see something more than Sam, as if being in Dean’s head is something that gets easier with practice.

“Excellent question.” Cas answers, and finally looks Sam in the eye. “Michael must be interfering.”

“Sure, Cas, we weren’t exactly expecting him to hand us the keys to the Maserati, but look around you.” And he spreads his arms wide. “What are we even doing here?”

Cas gives Sam a gruff look, and closes his eyes. After a few seconds, his forehead creases. Sam doesn’t want to interrupt whatever Cas is doing, but he also doesn’t want to stand here with his thumb up his ass.  

“Cas, come on –“

“Sam.” Cas’ eyes slam open. “Listen.”

Sam shuts up immediately. Silence hangs thick between them, and after a few seconds of hearing nothing but his own pulse thudding in his ears, Sam thinks that Cas must be hearing things or –

And then like a gunshot in his ears: “ _Sammy!”_

Sam’s eyes widen, and before he can turn around to locate the sound, Cas’ hand comes down hard on his shoulder. Sam almost tries to shrug the angel off, but Cas tightens his grip, and Sam feels the familiar _pull_ and the unending blackness slips away.

They’re in a bar. “Rocky’s Bar” if the emblazoned red writing above the bar is anything to go by. Cheesy décor and a dirty floor make the place into a regular dive. Business cards and signup forms for fantasy football leagues paper the wall by the phone, half empty moonshine glasses collect dust on sticky bar tables. Cheap bottles of whiskey line up like soldiers behind the bar, and a plastic jar full of olives warms itself under dim orange bar lighting. Classic twangy rock crackles from the old jukebox in the corner, more static than music at times.

Sam doesn’t see any of it.

The bar is nearly empty. Cas and Sam’s arrival have tripled the original occupancy of one. Facing away from them, the dive’s only denizen plunks down an empty glass on the bar. Sam holds his breath as the man reaches over the counter to snag a bottle and watches as he treats himself to a liberal pour of whatever swill he’s drinking this time.

The bottle thunks down next to his elbow and the man knocks back the drink in one gulp. His hand snakes out to grab the bottle again when Sam finally cracks the ice freezing him in place.

“Dean?” He says in a breath, and is surprised that enough sound escaped from his mouth to actually cross the room.

Dean – because who else would take advantage of an empty bar to drink cheap whiskey – spins in the chair. His elbow knocks the bottle, and it crashes to the ground in a soupy explosion of glass and amber liquid.

“Sam?”

Dean stands from the bar, hand still clenched around the glass. Open shock and confusion marred slightly with distrust cross his face, and in that slight skepticism, Sam finally sees his brother.

It’s only been two days – hardly even worth counting as days – since Sam last saw Dean. Sure – he hasn’t technically _lost_ Dean, not like the last time. But to be able to actually _see_ his brother, to talk to him again, to see he’s all right and not being waterboarded by Michael in some fucked up mental prison gives Sam more relief than he’s felt since Jack’s eyes cracked open after his resurrection.

Winchesters have a low bar.

“What – “ Dean starts, but Sam’s already taken three long strides and wrapped his brother in a hug that they both know Dean will deny later. Dean is frozen, still holding his whiskey glass. Slowly, he puts one arm around Sam. Embarrassed or hesitant, Sam isn’t sure.

Sam takes a step back, but keeps one hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Shit – it’s… it’s good to see you, Dean. It’s really, _really_ good to – are you okay? Is – “ Sam stops himself when he catches Dean’s expression. Dean’s looking at Sam and Cas like they’re wild animals that stopped into the bar for a quick bite. Like they shouldn’t – and couldn’t – be here. Sam takes his hand off Dean cautiously, and has to stop himself from raising both hands to prove he means no harm.

“Dean,” Cas says, stepping around Sam. “Dean, what do you remember?”

Dean doesn’t reply immediately, instead gives the angel a skeptical look. He glances down at the glass still in his hand, and sets it carefully down on the bar stool. “What are you doing here?” He asks bluntly. Suspicion is the only identifiable emotion coloring his tone. “There’s never been anyone here before.”

Sam and Cas exchange glances.

“Do you remember Hitomi Plaza?” Cas asks. “Do you know where you are?”

The fog in Dean’s eyes clear.

“Fuck me.” Dean mutters, almost to himself. “Hitomi Plaza. Michael always resets everything after I remember Hitomi Plaza. You guys are really…” he gestures vaguely around the bar, “here?” His face relaxes and genuine relief creases his eyes. He claps Sam and Cas on the shoulders with a grin. “ _Fuck_ , it is good to see you guys. Where’s Jack? Shit - where’s _Michael_? The holy oil plan worked right? You guys trapped him? That son of a bitch – he always acts cool as a fuckin’ cucumber. He – “

A burst of static kicks up from the jukebox, and Sam thinks he can make out voices. Irritation flashes across Dean’s face for a moment, gone so fast that Sam almost thinks he imagined it. Dean doesn’t even glance at the jukebox as it resumes playing a generic country song.

“We got him. In the Bunker. I mean, he’s _in_ the Bunker, we _got_ him in Hitomi Plaza.” Sam babbles.

Dean shakes his head with a snort. “I’m sure Michael’s Grade A shitting himself.”

“He claims to have some kind of plan in the works.” Cas says.

Dean shrugs, and sits back down at the bar. “Can’t say I know anything about that. Michael keeps dropping me in my greatest hits. Usually ends badly.” Something like fear passes behind Dean’s eyes, and he seems to suppress a shudder. He spins around the stool, and leans over the bar, fishing around for another bottle of something. His hand comes back empty. “So, how are we getting me out?” He asks, turning back study Sam and Cas in turn. “I imagine Toni’s device won’t work forever.”

Cas begins to answer, but Sam interrupts, “Dean…” Dean raises an eyebrow when Sam doesn’t immediately finish the question.  “How do you know we used Toni Bevell’s machine?”

Dean gives Sam a weird look. “How else would you be here?”

Sam frowns. “Right, it’s just – “

“Sam, come on.” Dean cuts him off. “I know what you’re doing here. Look, it’s _me_. It’s not a trick. Jesus. Ask me anything.”  His voice rises to a falsetto and he pretends to talk out of his hand, “My name is Dean Winchester. I like cars. I like beer. I have a birthmark in my ass crack. There’s an angel dick running around in my body.” His voice drops back to normal, and his hand drops back into his lap. “Well. Pretend that last one didn’t sound so dirty. We square?”

But Sam can’t stop the sinking feeling, like his stomach just dropped ten floors. “Dean, where are we right now?”

Dean shrugs. “Rocky’s Bar, assuming I can still read.” And he jabs a thumb behind him at the cheesy sign hanging over the bar.

“No, like… what is this place? Is this a memory?” Sam insists.

Dean rolls his eyes at Cas, and then pushes off the bar stool. He wanders over the to jukebox, and fiddles with the knobs. “I don’t know what you want me to say here, Sam. All these dives look the same. Bad music, decent grub, cheap booze. Can we get on with the rescuing slash killing Michael part of the plan?”

The jukebox cuts out again, and after a few seconds of silence, an explosion of static erupts from its speakers. Dean turns back to the machine, and all they can see of him is his back, his rolled-up sleeves, and his jaw tensing in anger. The machine crackles with interference and a pitchy whine. Then, buried in the static, Sam hears Dean’s voice. He can’t make out all the words, he has a hard time even recognizing his brother’s tone. Bits of a sentence jump out “…-ny, I’m gonna… check the … river is clear so… goddamn lev-… everywhere… sure…”

Dean slaps the jukebox with the flat of his hand, and the crackling voice stops immediately.

No one moves for a long ten seconds. Dean’s hand rests on the jukebox, and Sam can’t even turn towards Cas. He feels his palm start to sting as his nails dig deep into the flesh. He is so goddamn stupid and naïve, for thinking it would be this easy. That they would flip a switch on a machine, and he could instantly be sitting and drinking cheap beer with his brother at a bar.

As if Michael would ever just hand over Dean.

“I have to say,” Michael says, and all trace of Dean has dropped from his voice, “of all the vessels I have taken to walk on these earths, I have never had one I despised quite as much as Dean Winchester.” Michael doesn’t turn to face them. “He does have this tendancy to ooze through the cracks.” And he wipes a finger along the side of the jukebox, like a housekeeper making a point of finding overlooked grime.

Finally, Michael turns to face them. Any Dean mannerisms have been wiped clean, and Sam shivers, wonders how he had been able to see even an ounce of Dean in this monster.

“Well, boys. Welcome to Dean’s head. It’s getting a touch crowded, but I’m sure we can find the space.” Michael raises his hand and an explosion of light rocks the room. Sam and Cas are thrown backwards. Sam collides with a high-top bar table, and hits the ground hard. Two abandoned glasses are knocked off the table surface, and shatter into a thousand tiny slivers around Sam.

Cas wasn’t as lucky. Sam searches for him, and sees that he had been thrown clear across the bar, crashing into the back wall. Sam doesn’t have time to catch his breath, let alone see if Cas is okay, before a strong hand fists itself into his shirt. Sam is yanked up to his feet and he grunts in pain as his tweaked knee is pulled further in the socket.

Somewhere in the tussle, Michael had changed his appearance, and was back in his slick three-piece suit. He’d even remembered to magic the part back into his hair, and Sam guesses he should appreciate that Michael hates him enough that he was willing to leave the suit and styled hair behind to fool him. And in the end, pulling a prank is the most Dean thing that Michael could have done.

Michael looms over Sam, and Sam has no chance of breaking the archangel’s grip, even inside Dean’s mind. Michael owns this space, and Sam brought the fight to his turf. Still, there’s not a chance in hell that Sam is leaving Dean alone in here.

“I almost wish that the two of you had been born in my universe. Then I could have had the pleasure of doing this twice.” And then Michael’s other fist slams into Sam’s face before he can blink, and the pain of the swing takes up so much of Sam’s attention, that he hardly feels himself collide with the bar.

He’s hardly blinked the stars from his eyes when he sees that Cas has crossed the room, and is attempting to fight Michael one on one.

“Sam, run!” He yells, and tries to grapple Michael from the side.

Michael easily parries the blow, without so much as glancing at Cas. His eyes are still on Sam, who is slowly pulling himself to his feet using a barstool for leverage. “Run? Where are you going to run, _Sammy_?”

Michael catches Cas’ next swing, and turns his attention to the angel. “Castiel, I expected no less from this swine. But you should know better. You should understand most of all how wonderful it is to have an empty vessel. That’s all I’m really asking for here. Jimmy Novak, right?” Michael pulls Cas closer with one hand, and his other fist comes around like a sledgehammer and pummels Cas’ face once, twice, three times. He doesn’t drop Cas like he did Sam, and instead pulls Cas even closer to his face. “Jimmy Novak was still in my universe’s Castiel. By the time I ripped your grace out of him and scattered it into the ether, he was _begging_ me to let him go. He wanted to get back to his family, see his wife and daughter one last time before I irradiated the planet.” Michael finally drops Cas, and the angel hits the dirty floor with a wet thump. “He was an irritating little thing. I stomped my heel so hard into his head, I couldn’t get the brain out of the leather, and definitely not for lack of trying. I really, _really_ liked those shoes.”

Sam doesn’t take his eyes off Cas, even as he feels the side of his face swelling like a slab of meat. “Cas?” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he asks anyway. “Cas, are you – “

“Yes, Cas, are you…?” And Michael kicks Cas over so he’s now on his back. Cas’ breathing is thready and wet, but he glares up at Michael with fire in his eyes. Michael continues to taunt him using Sam’s words. “Are you… stupid? Are you… idiotically naïve and _unbelievably_ foolish?” He leans down over Cas. “Are you… done here?”

Sam knows to take advantage of good monologuing when he hears it. He’s made it to his feet, and rushes the archangel. Michael is still bent over Cas, eyes shining with battle, when Sam takes him from the side. He manages to knock Michael away from Cas, but that’s the extent of the ground he gains. Michael is shoved a few feet to the side, but hooks a hand into Sam’s shirt, and uses Sam’s momentum to slide him into another bar table. Pain radiates up Sam’s back, but he makes it back to his feet before his body can convince him to stay down.

“Nice try, Sammy.” Michael says, not a hair is out of place.

“Don’t call me that.” Sam snaps, and it’s such a ridiculous thing to be upset about. Sam _hates_ Michael so much more than he thought he could hate anyone. Michael gets under Sam’s skin like he was born there, as if he was placed on this earth to specifically ruin his life. Michael has stolen Dean as if Sam’s brother was a car left unlocked with the keys in the ignition, and Sam despises every breath Michael takes, every step in his brother’s shoes, and all the casual and graceful ease that the archangel has in Dean’s body.

Sam knows that if he could destroy everyone in the room with a word, he would say it in a heartbeat.

“Michael.” Cas coughs from the floor, but Michael doesn’t take his eyes from Sam’s. If anything, Michael seems to enjoy the fury pouring out of Sam like ripples of heat. Sam sees out of the corner of his eye as Cas pulls himself to his feet. With each second that passes, Cas’ movements become easier, less pained. Sam finally turns to look, at the same time Michael deigns to give the angel his attention. Cas straightens to his full height and brings the wrath of his gaze onto Michael. “You’re forgetting something, Michael.” And as Sam watches, Cas’ eyes light up with restored grace, and Sam has to shield his eyes as the light intensifies and sears Sam’s retinas. By the time he’s winked the spots out of his eyes, Cas is standing right by Sam. His face has completely healed. Not a speck of blood or filth from the floor marks Cas’ coat, and even his tie looks clean and pressed. “I’m an angel in here, too.” Cas finishes, and before Sam can blink, or turn to see Michael’s reaction, Cas has two stretched fingers on Sam’s forehead, and the entire bar slides from view.

A moment passes, and Sam gasps as he falls for half a second and his hands sink into cold mud. Sam’s heart is still pounding in his chest, and he frantically scans the surroundings for any trace of Michael. The archangel isn’t in sight. Sam pulls himself to his feet – he’s no longer in any pain, thanks to Cas – and takes another look around.

It’s familiar. He’s been here before. Cas brought them to a forest, near a small and dirty-looking creek. The trees seem dark and sinister, as if they’re rotting from the inside, and even the colors are subdued. But they’ve escaped from Michael, and that is something to celebrate, no matter where Cas dropped them off.

“Cas, that was – “ But Sam loses his words when he finally sees the angel.

Cas doesn’t look hurt, but his eyes are wide with strong emotion, and Sam swears that he seems paler, even in the odd lighting. From someone that just fought off an archangel, even managing to throw in a last witty rejoinder, the palpable anxiety plastered on Cas’ face makes Sam feel like they’ve traded one evil for another. Cas’ eyes dart from tree to tree, and Sam takes another, closer look where they are, before it hits.

Purgatory.

The sharp break of a snapping branch cracks the air from behind Sam, and both he and Cas spin to face the sound. It’s dark, but still light enough that they can see the figure that steps out from behind a tree.

“Dean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had three slightly different ideas for this chapter - and I'm glad I went with this one. Fuck - writing is hard sometimes. Also, anytime I get stuck on Dean's dialogue, all I think is "add more curse words? add more curse words." Sorry, Dean.
> 
> THANK YOU for reading and commenting <3 You guys are awesome.


	8. Chapter 8

Purgatory is gritty.

Dean knows he’ll get used to it eventually. But the grit. Everything is grit. The food is gritty, his clothes are gritty, his face is always gritty, even the water is gritty.

And for some reason – it reminds him of Sam. His brother, the clean freak. Whenever Dean soaks his shirt in the river, hoping to lose a week or two of dirt, he remembers his brother’s near fanatical insistence on his special Sam Winchester brand of laundry detergent (which was literally just a mix of two off-brand detergents, but don’t ever throw _that_ in Sam’s face.)

A chilly breeze stirs the air, and Dean wraps his jacket tighter. They’re camped for the night, and nights in Purgatory aren’t really any safer than the day. Dean is on the first watch, propped up against a tree with a weapon clenched tight in his hand. He misses his .45, but there’s always a sense of detachment when firing a gun. A melee weapon is so much more personal, and that’s really all that Purgatory is.

Personal.

It’s usually boring and cold, but Dean doesn’t mind the watch rotation. Cas offered to keep guard at night since he doesn’t need sleep, even in Purgatory, but Dean insists that the angel take some time for himself. His eyes drop to where Cas sits on a log near the fire they smothered hours ago. Cas argued over the rotation the first few nights, saying it was ridiculous for Dean to stay up when he needed all the sleep he could get, but Cas gave up eventually.

Dean studies Cas from the cover of darkness, sees the empty eyes and the thick stubble. It seems all Cas did recently was _give up_.  If Dean wasn’t shoving Cas along every step of the way, he would have laid down in the thick forest mud and died.

Okay. Maybe a touch dramatic. But Cas’ shtick was getting old, and Dean had a thousand and one other things to worry about than being the fucking Kris Kringle in that weird ass Christmas special dad always made them watch. _Put one foot in front of the other… and soon you’ll be walking out the door._ Dean’s going to get them across the finish line or die trying. Literally. He’s not leaving a brother behind.

Dean wipes grit absentmindedly off his forehead, and frowns at his dirty palm. It’s late. His watch is close to being over, it’s almost time for him to pass out for his five hours, but Dean would almost rather stay up all night than dream.

There’s a crack of a twig snapping, and Dean starts. But it’s only Cas, crossing the small space to stand next to Dean. Dean can hardly recognize smells anymore in Purgatory – everything reeks like blood and shit and river mud. But Cas seems to not smell at all, which can’t be, because he’s covered in just as much gunk as the rest of them. Apparently, angels are a natural deodorant.

“You look like you’re brooding.” Cas comments, and Dean snorts out a laugh. It’s classic, insensitive Cas, and Dean will take whatever version of Cas he can get these days.

“Brooding? Me? C’mon Cas, you’ve known me long enough. I can’t brood without a drink in my hand.”

Cas’ mouth quirks a little at the corner, and he looks out at their small camp. Dean follows his gaze to their slumbering companion. Benny is dead to the world, and it’s an honest wonder that he’s been alive this long without getting stabbed in his sleep. Snores like a fucking chainsaw, too. Benny can prattle on about Dean’s _humanity_ being a monster beacon, but Dean would bet 20 bucks easy that Benny’s snoring has contributed mightily to the problem.

“You’re not sleeping.” Cas remarks, and the humor is gone from his face.

Benny lets out an unusually loud groan in his sleep, then falls back into silence. Dean rolls his eyes at Cas. “Yeah, can you blame me?”

But Cas turns the full force of his own brooding gaze onto Dean. “That is not the case. You’ve hardly slept a couple of hours over the last three nights.”

Dean shrugs noncommittally and starts to pick dried blood and dirt out of his serrated club. When Cas continues to wait for a response, Dean reluctantly adds, “It’s Purgatory, Cas. Of course I’m not sleeping well.”

But that’s not true. Not really. And they both know it.

Cas’ blue eyes are flat black in the darkness. “Is it me?”

“Is it you what?”

“Are you not sleeping well because you think I’m going to leave?”

Dean rolls his eyes at the heavens, and exhales heavily. “No, Cas. I know you won’t leave. And if you even tried, I have a new vampire bff that can track your feathery ass for miles.” Dean _assumes._ “No, I don’t know. I’m having some weird fucking dreams recently, man.”

“Fucking dreams?”

“No, not – “ Dean stutters, “Just… I don’t know. Like… weird. Vivid. And it’s like… I just have these dreams about us being back home, and it’s almost like I’m remembering something. But I’m not. They’ve never happened.” Dean rubs the back of his head, embarrassed. If someone had told him years ago that he would be watching a vampire sleep in monster hell, talking to his angel best friend about his _dreams_ , he probably would have checked himself into the looney bin himself.

He doesn’t want to tell Cas. He doesn’t want to talk about his dreams about Sam slowly dying, because he’s taking on some kind of trial alone, and it’s _killing_ him. He doesn’t want to talk about the dreams where his eyes are black and his arm is marked, and he is suffocating with bloodlust and _death._ In some dreams, he sees a tall woman in black, and she watches him from across a field, amusement and longing and expectation dark in her eyes. He dreams about his mother, but she’s different and so is he, by now. Sometimes there’s a kid, looks nothing like any of them, but he’s bright and smart and kind, and Dean is filled with pride and fondness – and that can’t be right, because who is this guy, why does he feel like if he just _focuses_ , he can remember his name, he can remember all of it, if he just tries to scratch at –

“Dean!” Cas exclaims, loudly. The tone and the strange, searching look he gives him probably means this wasn’t the first time he tried to get Dean’s attention. “Dean, you need to rest.” He says firmly, and his grip circles Dean’s upper arm. Dean shrugs him off.

“Is something wrong with me?” He demands, and feels a painful migraine begin slowly burning in the back of his head. His eyes dart from Cas to their small camp, and he sees that Benny’s eyes are open, and watching him. “Cas, what – “

“Dean. You need to rest.” Cas repeats mechanically, and when Dean looks back, Cas’ blue eyes flash bright with grace. Dean knows something is wrong – is _worse_ – even before Cas’ – _Cas?_ – hand extends towards his forehead. He doesn’t even remember the actual contact before he crumples bonelessly to the forest floor.

And when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember any of it at all.

 

Jack is hungry and would commit grand larceny for a cup of coffee.

The Bunker is chilly, and the smooth surface of the table is cold under his palms. Jack glances up at Michael, who sits perfectly still and poised. The smile curving his lips is unnerving and distinctly un-Dean-like. All of Michael’s expressions are calculated and cold, and it’s a far cry from the open and colorful emotions of Dean Winchester.

Sam looks uncomfortable. Jack thinks he can almost make out minute flinches and changes in Sam’s breathing, but whenever he looks directly, he detects no change. Sam’s head hangs uncomfortably to the side, and Jack doesn’t envy the sore neck Sam will wake up to.

Cas is completely still, one hand on Sam’s shoulder. His eyes are closed under narrowed brows, and his face is tense.

In a room full of people, Jack is completely alone.

His eyes are drawn to the kitchen entrance, but he makes no move to get up. He’s here to watch over the process – no matter how boring it is – and that’s what he’s going to do. No matter how tempting that leftover sandwich in the fridge is. Or how quick he could start a pot of coffee.

Jack groans to himself and scrubs his hands over his eyes. He’s worried, of course. But it’s hard to know what to be worried about it when he’s surrounded by breathing statues.

Something clangs.

Jack starts, and immediately pushes back from the table. He listens hard, but only hears complete silence. Still, he heard something. He knows he did. Almost like the ping of metal against metal. Could it just be pipes? The Bunker is empty, completely vacated except for the people in this room. Maybe he just heard a hiccup in the Bunker’s life support systems?

He looks at his family seated at the table, and back at the doorway towards the deeper recesses of the Bunker.

Michael said he had a plan. But would the plan involve Jack staying put, or leaving the room? Jack is torn. He shouldn’t leave them alone and vulnerable. But he can’t stomach the idea of something prowling through the Bunker. His hand grips the back of the chair tight enough to hurt, and he slowly raises himself to his feet.

It won’t hurt to check.

Jack makes his way slowly out of the room, with only a backwards glance at the still figures he’s leaving behind. It’ll be fine. He’ll be right back. There’s no one else in the Bunker, it was probably something falling off a shelf.

Somewhere along the way, Jack forgot about Garth.

 

“Dean?” Sam repeats, heavy with dread.

His brother steps out from behind the tree. He’s years younger, but the look in his eyes is older. Covered in blood and scratches and dirt, Dean looks haggard, alert and… dangerous. Sam sees the cobbled together knife-club hybrid weapon that Dean came back 6 years before with, and knows without a doubt that they’re in a memory of Dean’s time in Purgatory.

Or so Michael would have them believe.

Dean steps warily into the small clearing. The only sounds are the small gurgle of the creek and whispery blades of grass rubbing against each other. Dean looks around, and his gaze passes right over Sam and Cas. Sam watches as his brother scrubs his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, and closes his exhausted eyes for a moment. Dean then turns around, and bellows behind him, “Are you two playing patty cake? Hurry up!”

“Dean?” Sam tries once more, but his brother makes no sign that he hears him, only waits impatiently for the two new figures to trudge into view.

When Cas and Benny the vampire step into the light, Sam has to physically turn around to reassure himself that Cas is still with him. Cas’ expression is unreadable as he watches the dirtier, haggard version of himself step into view.

Sam hardly knew Benny. He remembers their first meeting – the cold handshake that spoke volumes of _wrongness_ – and how he came within seconds of beheading the man that got his brother out of this hellhole. And it’s surreal to see the casual interactions of two friends (what else could Sam call it other than friendship?) when they don’t know they’re being watched. The second nature ease of their glance, the way Dean turns his back to the vampire without worrying that fangs will sink into his neck. It’s almost uncomfortable to see Dean rely on someone else like a brother.

But this isn’t the time to worry about their family problems from 6 years earlier.

“What’s happening, Cas?” Sam takes a step back towards the angel. “Why can’t they see us?”

Cas doesn’t take his eyes off his rugged counterpart. “My best guess is that Michael is dropping Dean into specific memories, looping him in and hoping that he’ll get stuck. If Dean believes himself to be in this moment, he won’t be besieging Michael from the inside.”

“Yeah, Cas, Michael already told us that. I’m asking why Dean can’t see us. I’m pretty sure he would know this was all a … memory loop if suddenly me and a second Cas drop in.”

Cas frowns at Sam like this should be obvious. “He doesn’t see us because we’re not here. Not in his memory. Dean can only see what he remembers.”

Sam turns back towards his brother, who has taken a few steps closer. His eyes are narrowed, and his head is tilted like he’s listening for something. Sam doesn’t hear anything but ambient noises.

“So what do we do?” Sam asks. “How do we make him see us?”  He takes the last few steps through the dew-covered clearing. The bottom of his jeans soak in the water, and he feels the cold spread through his legs. Feels real enough to him. He holds his hand out hesitantly, but Dean’s gaze passes right over him. Sam reaches out, and almost expected his hand to slide right through Dean’s shoulder. Instead, he makes contact, and he grips Dean’s shoulder. Dean has no reaction.

This is going to be a problem.

 

Dean is walking through the world where dead monsters tread. He’s been zapped here by an exploding leviathan, and he’s wearing the same clothes he’s worn for weeks. He’s flanked by a vampire he trusts implicitly, and an angel who was recently insane, and that’s all… fine. Normal.

So why does he have a bad feeling?

He steps out into a clearing, and studies it from the edge. He’s starting to hate open spaces. Somehow an area with less places to hide worries him more than a forest with monsters behind every tree. His eyes fall to the creek they’re following back to the river, and he scans the tall grasses, looking for any sign of a trap. Nothing immediately sets off any alarm bells. He feels a crusting bit of mud or blood on his forehead and rubs at it absentmindedly with his jacket.

Cas and Benny are taking their sweet time. “Are you two playing patty cake?” He calls over his shoulder. “Hurry up!”

The two slowly enter the clearing, and any bad mojo that Dean feels is clearly something only he is picking up on. Cas and Benny don’t seem especially alert or worried. Dean frowns, watches as Cas’ eyes sweep the clearing distractedly. He turns his back to them, and takes a few steps further into the clearing. He almost thinks he hears… whispers? Like someone is whispering inaudibly miles away. But then the wind picks up, and the grass swishes loudly in its current, and Dean almost writes the whole experience off as paranoia.

Then a shadow moves from across the clearing.

“Look – “ Dean tries to warn, but then chaos erupts.

Four werewolves burst into the open space from the other side. One snaps its teeth in their direction, irritated that the travelers’ vigilance prevented the easy ambush they would have found exiting the clearing on the other side. But food is food, and they’re not going to pass up a free meal when it stumbles into their laps.

Benny and Dean are never without weapons in their hands, and are never unprepared for a fight.

Three werewolves are across the clearing in a matter of seconds, but they’ve lost their element of surprise. Dean takes a swing at the first one, and cleaves off a good chunk of meat off its shoulder when it’s too late to dodge.

Benny’s teeth are bared and dangerous, and he tosses his spear from one hand to another. A second werewolf skirts around Dean and charges straight for the vampire, but Benny’s lasted longer in Purgatory than most, and he knows a rookie when he sees one. The werewolf hardly gets off more than a swipe before Benny neatly spears the son of a bitch to the ground, and removes his head for his trouble. Cas takes a step around Benny, who hardly looks up, and catches the third wolf by the forehead. The werewolf’s claws scrape at the angel’s extended arm, but Cas doesn’t so much as flinch before his palm explodes with light, and the enemy falls to the ground, eyes scorched.

Dean doesn’t see any of this, but doesn’t have time to worry about his companions anyway. The leader of the wolf pack is incensed that his days-long stalking of the human in Purgatory is crumbling before his eyes due to their impatience. His elongated teeth are bared in fury, and his yellow eyes are bright in the dull morning light. He lunges once more, but Dean neatly side steps the attack. Before the wolf can correct his balance, Dean’s arm snaps up, and severs the head from the neck.

But Dean counted four werewolves, and they’ve only dispatched three. He quickly checks behind him, and is gratified to see that Cas and Benny have polished off their own attackers – sweet how monsters always attack one at a time. Dean looks back up to scan the trees for the fourth ambusher, who seems to have melted back into the dark tree line.

“Dean, I would advise – “ Benny starts, but is cut off when a sudden twanging sound interrupts him. Something whistles through the air towards Dean, and suddenly Dean’s shoulder erupts with pain and he slams back on the ground.

 

“Dean!” Sam yells, as he sees his brother go down. Sam’s vision tunnels in fear when he sees a small wooden shaft is buried in the meat of his shoulder. Dean is dead silent and isn’t moving. Sam almost trips over his own feet in his hurry to get to Dean.

“Mother fucker!” Dean suddenly spits, and is on his feet again by the time Sam kneels at his side. Sam scrambles back as his brother, full of vehemence, charges off towards the direction of the would-be archer.

“Dean, wait!” Memory-Cas yells at his back, but is much too late. Dean is already across the clearing, deadly intentions clear in the set of his shoulders.

Sam is still back on his ass in shock, as he watches his skewered brother tackle the retreating werewolf. “Hello Robin Hood.” Dean greets almost brightly. “The 16th fucking century wants its weapon back.” And then Dean’s crude weapon catches the early light as it rises in the air, and sinks deep and heavy into the wolf’s chest. Sam is sure that the wolf is already long gone by the time Dean’s sliced off its head.

Dean straightens, and Memory Cas is already upon him.

Sam watches in shock as Dean casually glances down at the arrow shaft buried in his shoulder.

“Dean, don’t – “ The filthy angel tries to intercede, but Dean’s already gripped the shaft in the middle and yanked it out of his shoulder. Expression unreadable, he twists the small piece of wood in his fingers before chucking it down at the cooling corpse at his feet. It lands perfectly in its thigh. Dean turns his back and walks back towards Benny, Cas a few steps behind.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Sam, who is on his feet by now, rounds on Cas.

Cas gives him a sardonic look, as if Sam could have possibly forgot that this isn’t happening in real time. Only it _is._ Sam is watching his brother get hurt _now_ , and it doesn’t matter that this is all in Dean’s head, that all this has already happened. There’s blood darkening the shoulder of Dean’s jacket _now,_ and Sam feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Dean gets a fever tomorrow.” Cas says, and there’s no trace of emotion in his gravely voice. Sam turns back to the angel, shocked, but Cas is still watching Dean. “He gets a fever, ignores my concerns for a few hours. He pushes himself past the limit for another day. He passes out, and Benny and I clean the wound, which has, of course, festered. Within a day, Dean is back on his feet and ready to move out.” Cas is silent, and together, they watch as Dean inaudibly brushes off Memory Cas’ concerns, and straightens his bloody jacket.

Cas’ words hang in the air, hovering between them. Sam watches the casual interactions between the three across the clearing, bonds born from battle and trust. Dean puts some pressure on his shoulder as he chats with Benny, and his palm comes away bright red with fresh blood. He rubs the slickness off on his jeans distractedly.

“Why is Michael doing this?” Sam asks suddenly. Cas doesn’t reply. “Why is he doing this to Dean? Why Purgatory? Michael said that Dean has snapped out of almost 300 memories, why can’t Dean snap out of this one?”

Cas considers this. The three across the way gather their few belongings and begin picking their way along the creek. Cas and Sam have no other option but to follow.

“Dean in Purgatory was… different. We had to fight for every single victory, every single day, we had to fight tooth and nail to make it to another morning. But it brought out something in Dean. There was a new sense of purpose in him, he was almost a more intense version of himself. Maybe Michael is focusing in on different versions of Dean, hoping that he gets stuck in one of them. If Dean is running around Purgatory, then he isn’t bothering Michael.”

Sam nearly trips over a tree root. “You can’t tell me that Dean _misses_ Purgatory. That he would rather be here.” Sam wipes a hand across the setting, as if Cas would ever forget the place he wandered for months.

Cas shakes his head in agreement, but looks thoughtful. “Yours and Dean’s lives are immensely complicated in the real world. Shades of grey. Here – here it’s all survival. It’s single-minded. Dean can focus on one mission, and can work towards one goal. I think this was a time in his life when he needed that. You both lost Bobby, I was in no shape to be a reliable friend to him. In Purgatory, Dean only needed to do one thing – escape.”

Sam takes that blow in silence. Dean’s life has been an eternal shit storm since he was four years old. Both of their lives have been. But no matter what Cas says, Sam refuses to believe that this could be considered a high point in Dean’s life. Sam is going to get through to Dean, and get him out of here. Michael can’t have him.

Sam’s foot comes down hard on a dead tree’s root, and it snaps in half with a sharp break.

Dean’s head whips around and his eyes lock with Sam’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, I thought I was going to get much further in the plot in this chapter, but it just kept growing and growing. Also I had to go back and watch all the Purgatory bits from Season 8, and it's weird how much younger Jensen and Misha look, even though it's really not that long ago???? Or maybe it is. Maybe I'm getting old.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! Hope everyone had a good new year!


	9. Chapter 9

Jack had poked his head into half a dozen bedrooms by the time he remembers Michael isn’t the only prisoner they had locked away. Cursing himself for forgetting, for making such a rookie mistake when all their lives depended on him, he quickly makes his way to the prison section.

Jack’s heart speeds up when he sees the open door, but remembers right before he hits the panic button in his mind that they forgot to close Michael’s prison door. Just in case, he takes a few steps into the prison. The room is empty except for the unused cot and the blood red sigils. If Jack focuses too hard on the walls, he feels dizzy, so he quickly abandons the cell.

Jack shuts the cell door, and continues down the hallway cautiously. He knows that Cas put Garth in another cell, but Jack had yet to check on their brainwashed werewolf.

He peers into each of the cells as he moves along, and finally comes to the last in the hallway, the cell furthest from Michael’s. It’s the only cell that has a light on inside, and when Jack takes a careful look through the glass slit in the door, he sucks in a surprised breath.

He doesn’t know Garth. Sam and Dean claim to go way back with the werewolf, and that should be good enough for Jack. Or it would, if not for the Michael-grace-brainwashing-and-then-taking-a-killing-stab-at-Jack part of their brief acquaintance. The last that Jack saw of Garth was the Impala trunk slamming shut on his unconscious body. Jack got his face slashed for his trouble and can still remember the wolf yellow eyes bearing down on him. He peers into the room, expecting to see an unconscious man or a frenzied werewolf.

He’s not expecting to see Garth sitting ruefully on the cot, swinging his legs out like a grounded child.

When Jack gets closer to the window slit, Garth looks up, sensing Jack’s presence. He doesn’t make an attempt to rush the door, which Jack tries to find reassuring.

Garth holds up his hands in surrender, and says, “Jack, right? We didn’t really get to meet back there. Sorry, uh… sorry about your face… and the whole… trying to kill you thingy. I’m not my best self.” His voice is muffled by the door, but his face looks human, and he seems sincere enough.

Jack doesn’t make a move to open the door, but he does take a step closer. He’s unsure what he should do. Garth seems normal and human – well, normal werewolf – enough. “Do you need anything?” Jack asks awkwardly.

Garth shakes his head. “Not unless you’re offering to let me out so’s I can take a Texas-sized piss in an actual toilet.”

Jack isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. “How are you feeling? Since drinking Michael’s grace?” He asks cautiously.

Garth bows his head to study his hands. “All right, I guess. I think whatever you folks have done to Michael must have cut off any magic brain voodoo Michael had over me. Did you kill him?”

 “We’re not going to kill Michael while he is in Dean.”

Garth’s face visibly pales in the bright florescent lighting. “Michael is back in Dean?”

Jack had forgotten that Garth had essentially been unconscious for days. “Yes. But we captured him.” And Jack gives a brief summary of what Garth has missed. He’s not sure if Sam and Cas would approve, but as far as Jack is concerned, Garth risked a lot trying to help take down Michael. Even if Garth did have some nefarious plans in the works, he was locked tight in a prison cell lined with silver. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Balls.” Garth mutters after Jack finishes. “And now Sam and Cas are in Dean’s head? Is that safe?”

Jack considers the question and begins to grow nervous. He’s been down here for too long. They don’t really know for sure that Michael isn’t just playing along for some other purpose, or that he doesn’t indeed have a plan to escape. Garth must see the conflict in Jack’s eyes, even across the cell. He stands and makes his way across the small space. He raises his hands, palms out in reassurance.

“Are you sure you don’t need a backup man here? Seems to me that we’re free and clear as long as Michael is chained up like Mr. 24601 himself.”

“What?”

“Uh, nothing. Just an excellent musical reference. You’ll get there.” Garth winks.

Jokes aside, Jack is torn. If Michael Monsters are about to burst into the Bunker, it wouldn’t hurt to have a werewolf on his side, specifically one that Sam and Dean trusted enough to get him involved in the hunt for Michael. He knows Garth used to be a hunter, and a good one. But that’s the problem. This isn’t Garth. At least, it might not be _all_ Garth. Jack saw the effects of Michael’s control in the very eyes that now stare at him plaintively through the small window. “I’m sorry.” Jack says finally and takes a few retreating steps.

Garth takes a full step closer, and his face fills the small window. He doesn’t flinch away from the silver-lined walls. Garth gives Jack a mournful look through the glass, before his eyes flash blue with Michael grace, and his lips curl into a sneer. Jack takes another unconscious step back when the next voice to come out of Garth’s mouth sounds like a different person entirely, “You’re not sorry.” Blue grace fades to wolf yellow. “Not yet.”

Jack remembers too late that silver won’t work.

               

“Dean?” Cas asks cautiously.

“Huh?”

“What are you looking at?”

Dean has turned completely around and is staring hard at the path they’ve just walked. It’s only about midday, as far as he can tell in Purgatory time, but he’s still exhausted from a dreamless night and their morning brawl in the clearing. Now he’s seeing things.

Specifically, he’s seeing blood relations.

Dean’s shoulder itches uncomfortably from where the arrow pierced him and he wonders briefly if he’s lost more blood than he realizes. His mind has seemed a little fuzzy the last few days - a little less distinct. Something must be wrong.

Because why else would he see Sam and another Cas standing behind him?

He studies the spot that he thought he saw the two figures, but there’s nothing. Less than nothing. His tracking has improved enormously since his arrival in Purgatory, and he crouches to inspect their path carefully. There’s no sign of any footsteps but their own. He takes a look at Cas and confirms that the angel has been in front of him the entire time, and not ten steps behind, cleanly-shaven in a new trenchcoat.

“Nothing.” Dean answers finally, several moments too late. Whatever. Blame it on the blood loss. Fucking Werewolf Archers. Sounds like the plot of a CW show he would never admit to watching.

Dean feels a headache begin to form behind his eyes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “God. I miss painkillers. I even miss first aid kits.” Without opening his eyes, he points threateningly in the general direction he thinks Cas is standing. “Don’t tell mom I miss first aid kits.”

“Don’t tell who?” Cas says, and the honest confusion in his voice pulls Dean’s head above water.

“Sam.” Dean replies slowly, like Cas is losing it. He gives Benny a significant look, but Benny’s answering expression is unreadable. “Don’t tell Sam I miss first aid kits.” He repeats. “Let’s go.”

They walk an hour. Then another. Dean’s headache builds until he thinks his skull is going to explode, but he pushes through. He has a fucking hole in his shoulder, and an angel that asks him about it every three seconds. He’s not going to make them stop so he can lie down with a cold cloth over his eyes.

“Dean!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, _what?_ ” Dean demands, and rounds on Benny and Cas, who have been lagging a few paces behind for the last half mile.

Cas and Benny exchange glances. “No one said anything, Dean.” Cas says slowly. “Do you want to sit for a few minutes? We should clean your wound properly.”

Dean rubs at his eyes. “No.” He snaps, and stalks off.

Either he’s hearing things, or Cas and Benny are douchebags. His shoulder throbs deep under the skin, but it takes his mind off the pulsing spike in his brain. Maybe he’s going through alcohol withdrawals. _My name is Dean Winchester and I’ve been sober for…_ His last drink was… fuck, when was it? With Sam and Cas toasting to Jack’s life? But he thinks maybe he had another in celebration after Jack came back from –

Wait.

Who the fuck is Jack?

Dean’s headache reaches a crescendo, and he stumbles. He catches himself on a tree and vaguely hears Cas and Benny’s voices through the fog of pain and sharpness. But he also hears… the river… the wind… and… Sam?

“Jesus, Cas, what’s wrong with him?” It’s distinct now, he hears Sam. But Sam isn’t here. Sam isn’t in Purgatory, he’s back home, he’s back at Hitomi Plaza, he’s –

Hitomi Plaza.

The headache recedes and strengthens, like waves crashing down on his skull. He isn’t sure how much time has passed. He’s frozen, bent forward, one hand resting on the tree. He focuses on the rough bark digging into his palm, and holds onto that feeling, finding an anchor in it. He doesn’t hear any voices from the Purgatory Odd Couple, or from the ghosts that seem to stalk behind him.

The dam breaks in Dean’s mind – the one that’s been broken and patched up so many, many times now. Dean’s head flips through hundreds of memories and tries to click them all into their proper places. But a creeping, glowing figure is laced into many of them, tainting the originals. It’s Michael. Of course it’s Michael.

The mental dust settles, and Dean takes a deep breath. Fuck, how many times has this been? He remembers… he remembers fucking _everything_. But he feels scrambled, like he can’t place his memories in the right order anymore. Like he’s become a combination of too many people.

He straightens from his pained crouch, and his back nearly seizes from the awkward posture correction. He doesn’t turn around. He has an idea of what he’s going to see, and he’s too goddamned afraid to be wrong. If he’s wrong, Michael will shake his head like an etch a sketch and start over. After the usual deadly baptism.

“Dean?” He hears someone ask. He shuts his eyes. Sam. That’s Sam.

But he stays facing the tree. “Sam, I swear to God, if I turn around and you’re not there, I’m going to kill you.”

Sam’s laugh is broken. But it sounds like Sam. “How would you kill me if I’m not here?” Sam asks.

Dean sighs. “I’ll figure it out.” He steels himself, and finally turns around.

 

Whatever is wrong with Dean has gotten worse and worse as they trudge over the uneven terrain. Sam keeps a careful watch on Dean as they trail behind. Sam swears they hadn’t walked for more than ten minutes, when Memory Cas asks Dean if he needs a break now that they’ve put a few miles between them and the ambush site.

Sam turns wordlessly to Cas, and the question is unspoken. The angel meets his gaze but Cas only shrugs. “This is just how memories work. It’s not always perfect. To Dean, it’s possibly been several hours since we started walking, or a few minutes. We remember time in different ways, and we remember it differently depending on the context.”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t reply. If he’s skipped several hours of walking through Purgatory, that’s fine with him.

What’s not fine with him is that Dean seems to be struggling. Sam knows Dean well enough to know when he’s pushing his limits or hiding an injury, and right now, he’s doing both. He holds his injured shoulder stiffly, but Sam also catches Dean’s flinch when a strong beam of light breaks through the trees and slides across his face, and he knows that Dean is fighting a massive migraine.

“You mentioned the shoulder infection.” Sam breaks the silence. Cas nods. “Do you remember _this?”_ And he gestures broadly at Dean.

“My memory of Purgatory is imperfect, but I don’t recall this.” Cas says cautiously. “I know what you’re thinking, Sam. Dean is a fighter, and if he’s fought his way back through every memory that Michael’s thrown at him, he’ll get through this one too. We just need to be patient.”

Sam doesn’t want to be patient, but he acknowledges that Cas has a point. Dean looked at him earlier, Sam _knows_ that Dean saw him. And whether or not he believes that Sam is actually here, that’s bound to put a few cracks in the facade.

The walk seems uncharacteristically silent. Benny tries a few times to engage Dean in a conversation, but Dean gives one-word answers until Benny eventually gives up. Sam catches the worried glances Benny casts at Dean’s back and tries not to let that bother him. Of course, he’s glad that Dean had someone watching his back. But every time Sam glances at Benny, he feels another prickle of guilt deep in his chest that he didn’t try harder to find Dean. It’s a long time ago, now. But being in Purgatory – even an imitation Purgatory – reopens old wounds.

“God. I miss pain killers.” Dean complains a little while later, while rubbing at his eyes. “I even miss first aid kids.” He adds, and then points off into space at no one. “Don’t tell mom I miss first aid kits.”

Memory Cas asks Dean a clarifying question, but Sam feels his heart jump into his throat. Mom. Dean’s thinking about their mom, who won’t be resurrected for _years_. Dean changes his words a few seconds later, corrects the memory back to the original, but Sam’s steps are lighter after that. Dean is fighting. He can fight this.

“Dean?” Sam asks hopefully, a few moments later. Dean doesn’t twitch.

“Dean.” Sam says later. There’s no sign that Dean’s heard him. Sam picks up a rock and chucks it at Memory Cas’ back. The rock thunks dead center between the angel’s shoulder blades but the hit garners no reaction. Cas turns reproachful eyes on Sam, but Sam shrugs. “Just… checking.” Cas rolls his eyes to the sky.

“Dean.” Sam tries again a few minutes later. Dean doesn’t react, but he rubs his forehead hard, like the pain is getting worse. Sam throws another rock, this time at Benny.

“Dean!” Sam yells, ten minutes later, rock already in hand.

"Jesus fucking Christ, _what?_ ” Dean snaps, and Sam drops the throwing rock in complete shock. Dean turns around, and glares at Benny and Cas. He doesn’t so much as glance in Sam’s direction, but they’re getting closer. Memory Cas asks Dean if he wants to take a break, and Dean snaps out a negative. But there’s a shift in his posture. Something has changed.

Dean’s hardly taken a few steps forward when he suddenly sags against the nearest tree. “Jesus, Cas, what’s wrong with him?” Sam rushes forward to check on him, but Cas holds out a restraining arm. “Wait.” He cautions, but his face doesn’t hide the shared expectation.

Sam watches his brother’s back helplessly, sees the waves of recognition and confusion crash around him. He remembers another time, another place, when Sam broke the dam in his own mind holding back his time in the cage. He shudders at the memory and smothers it down. It’s not the time to be reliving years-old trauma.

But then… it seems to be over. Dean recollects himself and straightens from his slump against the tree. Sam sees the muscles tense in Dean’s neck, and hopes the worst is behind them. For once.

“Dean?” He asks cautiously. Cas has dropped his raised arm, but neither make a move towards Dean.

Dean’s hand tightens on the tree, and slowly curls into a fist. “Sam,” he replies flatly, and Sam almost sags in relief, “I swear to God, if I turn around and you’re not there, I’m going to kill you.”

Sam barks out a laugh, and all the strain and fear he’s felt for days leak into the sharp sound. But he plays along. He’ll always play along for Dean. “How would you kill me if I’m not here?”

Dean looks down and shakes his head. “I’ll figure it out.” He promises, and then finally – God, _finally_ – Dean turns around and Sam sees his brother for the first time. His real brother.

“God, Dean.” Sam mutters, and it’s all he can really say. Dean’s beat up, bloodied, exhausted – and he still managed to beat Michael back. The world throws so much in Dean Winchester’s path, and he soldiers on, he pushes through. Always.

Sam begins to approach Dean, but his brother quickly retreats a step. His classic Purgatory club comes between them. “If it’s all the same to you, Sammy, maybe just keep your distance for a bit.” Dean drawls, but there’s a glint of warning in his eyes. The look that says _don’t push your fucking luck._

Sam obligingly stops, and Dean lowers his weapon again. “Does Michael drop me in your memories often?” Sam asks, and wonders how he can convince Dean of something when Dean won’t trust a word out of his mouth.

“Never. But first time for everything.”

“The holy oil worked – we were able to weaken Michael. We slapped Bobby’s cuffs on him and got him back to the Bunker.” Sam explains, hoping that bringing Dean up to speed will reassure him of Sam’s veracity.

“Figured that. Michael in the slammer explains why he’s giving me such personal attention. Next time, let’s get some magazines for the guy.” A shadow crosses behind Dean’s eyes, but he locks it down.

Sam doesn’t want to admit it, but Michael’s absence is making him nervous. He has to know that Cas zapped them as close to Dean’s memory as possibly, which meant he was either laying a trap in the memory, or he was planning something even worse out in the real world. Sam just needs to trust that Jack will turn off the device if anything goes wrong. “We used Toni’s device to sync up with your mind. Cas forced the connection, but we’re not sure how long we have until Michael powers up again.”

Dean nods slowly, and Sam can see his mind turning over and over, trying to figure out if this is a new ploy of Michael’s , and if it is, what’s the penalty for falling for it. Sam gives him a moment to process – he doesn’t want to scare Dean off by forcing the issue.

Sam isn’t entirely sure, but if he looks closely at Dean, he thinks that he can see Dean… aging. Getting older. His memory is catching up to the present, and his body seems to be following along. It’s only 6 years, almost indistinguishable, really, but Sam sees lines draw themselves around Dean’s eyes, and sees the few years pile on. Sam isn’t sure how Cas instinctively understands all this memory-diving, mind-syncing. For Sam… it’s fucking weird.

“Alright. Let’s say I believe you.” And Sam can see that Dean really, really wants to believe it. “What’s the plan? I can’t kick Michael out. I’ve tried.”

Cas speaks for the first time, and it’s only when he turns his attention to the angel that Sam realizes that Benny and the other Cas have disappeared. “We might not be able to expel Michael currently. But we may be able to hide Dean from Michael.”

Dean twists his hands impatiently around his weapon. “Only the real Cas would be this friggin’ vague.” He mutters unenthusiastically, but he catches Sam’s eye and there’s a twitch of a wink. Sam hides a smile. He needs to believe that this is the real Dean, and not another Michael trick. Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do otherwise.

Cas’ plan is relatively simple. (Yeah, right.) Michael drowns Dean in his memories, fine. (Uh, yeah, _not_ fine…) But his main goal is to find the memory that ultimately Dean can’t break out of, and then – as far as Michael is concerned – Dean Winchester is off the board. (Can we not use chess metaphors, now you’re just being pretentious). The bottom line is that Michael _knows_ where Dean is at all times, and when _Hitomi Plaza_ finally breaks down the wall Michael places in Dean’s head (Gross.), Michael just wipes Dean out of that memory and starts over. (like a stunningly good-looking etch a sketch – _Dean, stop interrupting)._ But if they can put Dean in a new memory without Michael discovering which one, then maybe Dean can stay under Michael’s radar until they can figure out how to eject Michael from the outside.

“That’s horse shit.” Dean remarks flatly, and some of that Purgatory grit is back in his voice. “How is that any different than just giving Michael what he wants? I’m _not_ hiding from that son of a bitch. I’m not going to sit back and pretend to follow memory lane for as long as it takes.”

“Dean.” Sam cuts in. He wasn’t expecting this kind of resistance from his brother. “It’s just temporary. You cannot seriously tell me that you would prefer Michael _drowning_ you and dropping you in a new memory over and over.  Do you want to have to fight your way out all over again? That sounds… that sounds like hell.”

Dean doesn’t even consider Sam’s words. “Yeah, it’s a hard no.” And his eyes flash with steel and red-blooded Winchester stubbornness. “I am _not_ giving Michael a goddamn inch. I am _not_ laying down without a fight, and I will not make this _easy_ for him. If Michael wants to glass the planet, I refuse to hide in the fucking bomb shelter.” Dean’s anger and frustration with his own powerlessness whip around them like a storm. Sam is forced to shield his eyes as the wind rips up clods of dirt and dead grass. The black river rises and falls with foamy-white turbulence, and even the actual _sun_ seems to flicker sickly. Before Sam’s eyes, Dean Winchester sheds the rest of his Purgatory look, and stands before them precisely as he was before Michael pried open the door and clawed his way back inside.

And Sam sees what Michael has been fighting all along – a pissed off, vengeful Winchester that will go out with a celestial _bang_ before he concedes the fight. In his brother, Sam sees a force great enough to take on an archangel and prevent an on-coming apocalypse.

_Dean was resisting me._

_He wouldn’t stop… squirming._

The fight dims from Dean’s eyes but doesn’t disappear. It simmers on the back burner of his mind, and Sam remembers that Dean has been through nearly 300 instances of this exact hell, and has been crushed and drowned and buried over and over. And it’s only made him angrier. But Dean manages to reign it in, and their surroundings settle into stillness.

“Okay, Dean. Okay. We’ll figure something else out.” Sam says, and he takes a slow step towards Dean. He takes it as a sign that Dean isn’t going to deck him when he doesn’t take a step away. Sam carefully places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean seems to relax marginally. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dean. We’re glad you’re here.”

 

 

Dean’s a little embarrassed over his cosmic temper tantrum, but he’s had a lot of rage built up and only an all-powerful archangel to take it out on. And that always goes as well as you would expect.

Cas absorbed Dean’s tirade in thoughtful silence. Dean understands that Sam and Cas want to keep him safe, but some things have too high a cost. Dean will break down the memory block a million times before he lets Michael sink him in the mud.

“Can we at least agree to leave this memory for now? Better to regroup where Michael can’t track us immediately.” Cas suggests reasonably. Dean’s eyes fall on the angel, but he blinks and his vision skips. For a brief second, it’s Purgatory Cas and Benny in front of him, and Sam and Cas are gone. Dean knows it’s just… aftershocks. An echo. But he misses Benny, and he misses the easy camaraderie the three shared here. Sometimes, and he’ll never admit it to Sam, he misses Purgatory. In Purgatory, he didn’t have to deal with archangels and Michael Monsters and Apocalypse Number 20. The echo fades, and Cas and Sam are back, waiting for Dean’s answer.

He nods. “Let’s go.”

Cas gives Dean a small smile, aiming for comfort but lands too close to pity as far as Dean is concerned. Cas grips Sam’s shoulder, and Dean tries not to flinch when two fingers reach for his forehead. He shuts his eyes.

The constant background noise of a forest disappear, and the next sound that Dean hears is a distant car horn honking His eyes slam open and he finds himself alone, sitting on the edge of a motel bed. The motel room looks like any number of the hundreds he’s stayed at, and he can’t place the specific memory. Standard motel fare - the sheets are paisley and disgusting, the windows are covered by dirty blinds, and a six pack of beer warms to room temperature on the nightstand. Dean pulls himself to his feet, but before he can take a step, Sam and Cas appear in the room with a displacement of stagnant motel air.

Sam seems disoriented from the landing and catches himself on a chair to keep from falling forward. He steadies himself and his eyes sweep the room. When his gaze lands on Dean, his eyes widen and his hand slaps to his mouth to keep in his bark of laughter.

Dean looks down at himself.

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking miss me with the idea that Dean would ever give up.
> 
> When I was rereading this chapter before posting, I decided I'm a little unhappy with how edgy Dean ended up. He's a little too fire and brimstone for someone that's basically getting rescued. But I'm choosing to read it as Dean still has Purgatory on the brain, or maybe the 277 memories are finally catching up to him. The funny part about this chapter (to me), was that my ONE plan going into it was that I wanted Sam to try and hug Dean, and Dean just fucking decks him. Just lays his ass out in the dirt, because his brain is still on the red-alert Purgatory setting. But I couldn't find a way to fit it in, so there goes the one thing I wanted.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3 I promise that things will pick up from here. This chapter was the definition of housekeeping.


	10. Chapter 10

“Dean, you need to come out of the bathroom.”

“No.”

“Dean, come on – “

“Fuck off, Sam. I’m not leaving until I’ve grown chest hair.”

Sam sighs heavily, and manages to reign in the snickering that threatens to bubble to the surface. Dean will never open the bathroom door if Sam lets even a peep of amusement escape, and Sam really, _really_ wants to peep. He shakes his head at the peeling bathroom door, but decides to give Dean a few extra minutes before he breaks the door down. Sam takes a seat next to Cas on the bed.

“Why did you have to pick _this_ memory, Cas? Dean is going to be throwing a temper tantrum – “ Sam almost loses his fought-for composure “- the entire time.”

 “I can _hear you,_ ” snaps a voice muffled through by wall. The bathroom door slams open, banging hard enough into the wall to leave a crack in the plaster. And there’s Dean Winchester, four feet, six and a half inches, dotted with freckles, and wide green eyes blazing with all the fury that a ten-year old can summon.

“This is a special kind of bull shit, Cas.” The kid says darkly, and the lights in the bathroom flicker behind him.

“Hey.” Cas says, dead serious. “Watch the language.” Sam claps a hand over his mouth.

The bathroom door slams shut in their faces. Sam scrubs a hand down his face, forcing himself back into seriousness. Light-hearted teasing of Dean aside – they’re currently no better off than they were before. They’re still in Dean’s mind, Michael is still prowling around, and they’ve left Jack effectively alone with Michael and whatever plan he’s currently devising. They need to come up with a new strategy.

Dean eventually cools off enough to leave the bathroom. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his second-hand jacket, but he looks more embarrassed than furious now. He sits on the second bed, across from Sam and Cas, and only his toes can scrape the floor.

“How long until Michael finds us and rips us a new asshole?” Dean asks, and the words come out even more vulgar in his childish voice. Sam doesn’t find it funny anymore. Dean seems even more vulnerable against Michael in this form, and it makes Sam’s hair stand on end. But it’s still Dean in there. Sam’s head aches to reconcile his older brother in a decades-younger body, but they’ve (unfortunately) been here before.

Cas shakes his head at the question. “Michael knew exactly where we were in Purgatory, and didn’t intervene. Either he’s distracted, or planning something.”

               

There’s the grating sound of a key turning in the motel’s lock, and the three memory trespassers jump to their feet in alarm. The door swings open, and a small form barrels into the room towards Dean. Dean’s knees hit the side of the bed in his attempt to scramble out of danger. The figure wraps its arms around his waist, and Dean’s arms are awkwardly raised above his chest, like he was about to shove off an attacker.

It’s Sam. Specifically, it’s Sam at 6 years old. There’s no other word for it – the kid is fluffy. His hair is a riot of mussed curls, still brightly colored with childhood and sunlight. He’s wearing a ridiculous patchy sweater with a train on it that John had clearly picked out of a bargain bin at the Salvation Army. Sam’s eyes raise to Dean’s, and Dean’s insides freeze and shatter.

Small fists curl around Dean’s collar and yank Dean’s head level with Sam’s. “Dean.” The 6 year-old says, serious and unamused. His forehead touches Dean’s, and he stares soberly into Dean’s eyes. “Dad said a _very_ bad word in the car.”

There’s the slam of a car door outside and Dean’s insides twist as a tall figure, silhouetted in the afternoon light, fills the door frame. “Sammy, do _not_ rat me out to your brother.” A deep voice reprimands, but there’s no heat behind the words.

John Winchester enters the room, and Dean gapes as the older man drops a bag of groceries casually onto the motel table. John’s eyes are on Sam, but the sight of his father pins Dean to the spot like an insect behind glass. It’s John Winchester, and he’s _young_. Dean does the math quickly, and sucks in a pained breath when he realizes that John is 35. Four years younger than Dean is currently. 

“Did you do your homework?” John asks, and Dean starts when he realizes that John is talking to him. About _homework._

“Uh, yes sir.” He answers quickly, and for a few seconds, Dean really feels ten years old again.  He looks down at Sam, who’s let Dean’s jacket go, and is currently trying to pull off his shoes. Dean bends down to help.

Something stutters in Dean’s brain, and he forgets for a moment why he’s here. The correct version of Dean clicks into place, and he hears his voice ask Sam, “Did you sneak the poptarts into the basket?”

Sam nods evilly and shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder at their dad. “The cinnamon ones _and_ the cherry ones. Because – “

“Because cherry is my favorite.” Dean finishes, and reaches over to ruffle his brother’s hair. Dean wanted to go to the store with his family, but Dad got mad because he hadn’t finished his math homework. Whatever, like they were going to stay here long enough for it to matter. He finished the homework before Dad had even grabbed the car keys, but Dad still didn’t let him come. _It’s a lesson. Listen to me the first time._

Sam clambers on the bed, and lies down with a giant groan, as if he’d had an exhausting day in the office. Dean doesn’t really know what that means, but his dad said it once and he thought it was funny. Sam catches Dean’s eye and then looks plaintively at the TV remote, his hand opens and closes in little grabby motions. Dean huffs a laugh and reaches for the remote. It’s Dean’s turn to pick the channel, but he guesses that Sam can –

Something grabs Dean’s arm, something he can’t see, a few inches from the remote. His heart nearly stops and he has a sudden fear that something horrible followed Dad home from his job fighting monsters. Something that’s now in the room with him and Dad and Sammy, something that -

“ _Dean!_ ” Someone shouts at him, and Dean nearly falls over when a tall figure appears in front of him as sudden as a stage curtain dropping. Dean can’t move, he can only stare fearfully at the ghost’s eyes, which… look… familiar. Warm hazel-green eyes blink worriedly at him, and Dean looks over the ghost’s shoulder at Sammy, who’s lying back on the bed, pushing buttons on the remote that Dean definitely didn’t give him.

Dean’s eyes dart back to the ghost in front of him, and he feels a pressure in the back of his head, like the puffed-up air in a bag full of chips. Like if he presses too hard, the whole thing will explode. His vision swims and his head aches. Dean’s eyes slide to the side, and he sees his frightened reflection staring back at him in the mirror. And then the mirror warps and another man with his eyes stare back at him. Dean flinches away, but it’s already enough, it’s _too_ much, he’s experiencing time forwards, backwards, sideways.

His head drops into his hands, and he remembers it all. _Hitomi Plaza_ pulses again and again in his head like a mantra, and everything slams at once into his head.

“Jesus.” Dean mutters, and rubs at his forehead. Sam is still hovering over him, arms in front like he’s going to try and tackle Dean if he makes a break for the door. “I’m good.” Dean says to his brother, and takes a step back to reassert personal boundaries. He tilts his head up to look at Sam more closely. “You are just… freakishly tall, Sam. It’s a bit much.”

Sam relaxes slightly when he sees Dean is back to normal. Or as normal as a man pushing forty can be when shoved back into his body from three decades ago. Again. Dean rubs a hand against his forehead distractedly. Man, he needs a new job. “What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Sam admits.  “You just blanked out. We tried talking to you, but you didn’t hear us. You just started…” and Sam makes an awkward gesture at the younger version of himself lying on the bed.

“You got stuck in the flow of the memory.” Cas explains, and Dean turns his attention from younger Sam to the angel, who stands near John. It’s almost incomprehensible to see them both in the same room.

Dean swallows. “Will it happen again?”

Cas glances down at the younger Sam, and back at Dean. “Not if you don’t let it.”

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Should we… I don’t know… leave? Go outside?” He’s reluctant to leave, but doesn’t want to show it. He now understands why Cas chose this time in their lives. Dean feels… safer, here. Safer with his father alive to watch over them, young enough still that Sam and their dad get along. Where they’re still a family. Dean looks around, and he can remember the time before their lives went to hell with demon blood, archangels, resurrections and all the rest of the insane twists that life has thrown at them.

“We can’t go too far. We need to be in the general area of the memory. I suspect if we go too far, we’ll be snapped back here.”

“Anywhere but here.” Dean says, but his gaze falls and gets stuck on the younger image of Sam. Sam’s eyes are drooping as he fights sleep, forcing himself to take advantage of the small window that John is letting them watch cartoons without complaint.

“Dean,” Cas says gently. “You’re not really here. This is only a memory.”

Dean watches the younger Sam, and his memory, which is already fragmented and scattered, sweeps him up out of the eye of a storm. The sleepy form laying on the bed flickers into a hundred different versions of Sam. There’s Sam at 24, spine severed and body already cooling. There’s teenage Sam, equal parts awkward and confident, a talented hunter still growing into himself. Sam in a hospital gown, empty-headed and moments before Gadreel enters him like an infection. There’s Sam without his soul, scowling and cold and the thing of nightmares. Sam with his arm in a sling, fear and pity in his eyes, staring at his black-eyed monster of a brother. Sam at 18, Sam at 29, Sam at 35. The figures flicker faster and blend together until Dean feels himself tilt to the side as he loses balance.

A hand fists itself into his jacket, and Dean anchors himself to the present. His head pounds with the aftershocks of a migraine, but the headache is already receding. He steadies himself and turns to see that Sam has caught him before he keeled over. Concern brightens Sam’s eyes, but he drops his supporting hand when Dean gives a sharp nod.

“Let’s kick rocks.” Dean says, and his voice is deeper as his body scrambles to catch up to his mind. He doesn’t give a backwards glance at young Sam’s slumbering form, as he picks his way around the duffel bags dumped in the middle of the room. But as he opens the door, his eyes get caught on John. His dad sits in the shadow of the room’s corner, picking idly at gunk crusting the handle of a knife. His face is smooth of the wrinkles that Dean remembers, but there’s a heaviness of the soul behind John’s expression that Dean doesn’t remember. Maybe he was just too young to see it, and by the time he was old enough, it was too late.

               

Sam watches Dean hesitate at the open door, his hand clenched tight around the handle. The afternoon glare of the sun fills the room and illuminates the form of John Winchester, who doesn’t seem to notice the light or the scrutinization.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam, but says slowly, “I wish we could have done more for him.” The youthful sorrow in his voice digs at Sam on an almost physical level, but he doesn’t exactly share Dean’s feelings.

“No comment.” He says gruffly and turns his back on the specter of their dad. He places a hand on Dean’s small shoulder and gently propels him from the room. Cas follows behind, gently closing the door behind them.

They walk a few steps into the parking lot. Older cars park crookedly in the spaces, and some kids wearing matching track suits share a cigarette by the broken vending machine. Sam tracks a couple as they walk down the street, both wearing about seven articles of denim clothing. Dean hops the curb and approaches the Impala circa 1989. His small hand drags across the glossy black car as he circles it, and the deep appreciation in his expression is 100 percent Dean. Sam even thinks that Dean looks a little older – maybe 12 or 13 now.

Sam turns to Cas, about to ask the angel what he thinks they should do next, when the words die in his throat. Cas stands completely still, one hand pressing hard against his forehead. His expression is pained, and his eyes flash around volatilely as if concentrating on something only he can hear.

“Cas? You okay there?” Dean says, also noticing the change come over the angel.

“No. Something is wrong. Jack is trying to pray to me, but it’s… I don’t understand.” His eyes shut as if he can concentrate better on Jack’s warning prayer. “Something bad has happened.”

“Something bad, indeed.” agrees a new voice. John Winchester stands in the doorframe, and his lips curl into a close-lipped smile as he stares down at them. His dark eyes snap blue with archangel grace. “But not as bad as what happens next.”

 

Jack wakes with a pained groan. His entire body feels like it was hit by a car that backed up to run him over twice. Florescent lighting beats down against his retinas and he shuts his eyes quickly to block it out. He’s lying on his back on something hard and uncomfortable. His hand stretches out and he feels the cool near-moistness of concrete. Slowly, he opens his eyes and blinks up at the bright lighting. Where is he?

Last thing he remembered, he was watching over Sam and Cas as they entered Dean’s mind. So, the Bunker? No, wait, he went to check out a noise… he went to the prison section to find Garth… but everything is a little fuzzy after that. He remembers talking to Garth, and then… archangel grace pouring from the werewolf.

Everything clicks into place, and Jack shoves himself to his feet with a gasp. Michael. Michael took control of Garth, and broke down the prison door. Jack remembers the metal door flying and colliding with him in a painful crunch. He smacked the back of his head on the wall behind him. Before he passed out, he remembers a dark figure standing over him, arms reaching out…

Jack shakes the image from his head, and realizes where he is, and why he’s still alive. Garth-Michael had shut him into the archangel prison. Jack has no idea how long he’s been out, but he knows that Garth-Michael can’t be up to anything good. Jack hurries towards the door, but before he can reach it, he’s suddenly thrown backwards through the air, like he was caught in a strong wind.

He lands painfully on his side, but pushes himself back up immediately. Holding his bruised arm to his side, he approaches the doorway carefully. His eyes drop to the final seal, where fresh blood has closed the final blood sigil. He’s trapped.

He can’t pound on the door without getting blown backwards, but he cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “Sam! Cas!” The names echo around him in the cell, but he know it’s a worthless attempt. Sam and Cas are sucked into Dean’s mind and won’t be able to hear him unless he shuts the machine off and wakes them up.

Not good. Jack’s head is a little scrambled, but he tries to focus, tries to think of a plan.

He studies the closed blood seal, and takes another step closer. He reaches out with his hand, but is thrown back again when his hand crosses the line. Not good. Apparently, there’s still enough archangel in Jack for the cell to work on him, now that the final seal has been filled in. But he has to try. Jack approaches the seal once again and steels himself. His hand extends across the line. He focuses, tries to imagine himself crossing the line. His fingers dip a few inches past the line, and he swears he can almost feel his human soul squirming. He stretches his arm a little more, but with a sudden jolt, is propelled backwards into the cell, skidding a few feet on his tailbone.

 _Come on, Jack, think…_ He doesn’t try to rise to his feet. Instead, Jack crosses his legs and shuts his eyes. Focuses. He needs to get out of the cell to warn Cas and Sam that Garth has escaped, and is apparently back under Michael’s control.

This is an archangel prison. These are archangel seals. Jack is half archangel, so he can’t cross the line. But he _was_ able to pass over the line when he and Sam tested it on Cas after they finished preparing the room. That was back when he didn’t have his grace anymore. When he was human.

Jack’s eyes snap open. But he _is_ human. Or partly human, anyway. Jack pulls himself to his feet, and approaches the door one more time. He knows that he managed to get a few inches across the seal. If he focuses, shoves down his slowly-returning archangel grace, he should be able to somehow avoid triggering the seal’s defense against archangels. It’s either that or sit here patiently until Michael figures out what to do with him.

Jack reaches his hand out again and his eyes slip closed. He tries to recall the feeling he experienced – the shifting, squirming of two dueling energies fighting for dominance. Jack’s always thought that his grace made him… powerful, made him a force to be reckoned with. But after the last few months living without it, living as a human, Jack’s reconsidered what it means to be a Nephilim. He recalls the burst of pride in his chest when Sam smiled proudly at him after he picked the post office lock. The sense of accomplishment of doing something… human.

Jack finds the human soul inside of him pulsating like a heart beat. He feels it try to twist out of his grasp, like a warning that some things shouldn’t be interfered with. He mentally slackens his grip, and gently guides the human part of himself, sealing off the small kernel of archangel grace that throbs sickly at his core. He feels the human soul wrap around itself over and over, like a dense shield. Jack takes a deep breath, and steps over the barrier.

Nothing happens. Jack looks down at his feet, makes sure he’s completely across the line, before he shoves his weight against the door. He winces as his bruised body lights up with pain, but he pushes through, and slowly the door slides open. It seems like Garth-Michael didn’t worry about locking the door from the outside.

Jack manages to get the door open enough for him to slip through. He’s breathing hard and needs to rest hands on his knees to catch his breath. His mental reach withdraws, and he senses the two foreign forces inside of him return to their flowing dual states. His head spins, and he feels something spasm deep inside. He coughs, sudden and hard, into his hand. He opens his fist and sees dark specks of blood dotting the palm. He wipes it on his jeans without giving it a second thought. No more poking at his soul – he can worry about that after he’s checked on Sam and Cas.

As if following a cue, Jack hears the distant sounds of doors opening across the Bunker. He shoves his mental exhaustion and physical pain aside and races up the hallway. He trips once, but staggers back to his feet and continues his sprint.

By the time he reaches the main room of the Bunker, his heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Nothing has changed in the room. Cas still has his hand balanced on Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s expression is tense, but he seems otherwise normal. Michael hasn’t shifted an inch. There’s no sign that Garth has even been here.

There’s a creak of floorboards, and Jack spins on his back heel. Two figures stand in the gloomy shadows of the hallway. He can’t see who they are, can’t even see the features of their faces. But they could only be here for one reason, and he needs to warn the others before it’s too late.

 _Cas!_ He prays desperately, and sends the prayer out far and wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like I get a high off cliffhangers or something...
> 
> When I decided to do a memory-focused fic, I told myself, "do NOT do a Weechesters memory. Do NOT." So that promise to myself obviously worked out great. I do like this chapter a lot, though. I kinda rushed through the Jack part but it's like......... do we really care........ what's happening out there........ like......
> 
> Thanks for reading! And thank you for commenting! I read them over and over - you guys are incredible.


	11. Chapter 11

“The Bunker’s been breached.” Cas reports under his breath. “Jack says there are two Michael Monsters in the Bunker, and... Garth is missing from his cell.”

Sam’s mind struggles to keep up. It’s easy to forget that they’re not really in Anytown, USA, despite the generic motel setting. They’re all still seated in the Bunker, waging a losing war in their minds. Michael’s monsters could be two feet away, and there’s nothing any of them can do.

John Winchester smiles passively from the darkened door frame. His eyes flicker with subdued grace as he inspects his current appearance. A battle-scarred hand rubs down his chest from neck to navel as he flattens the wrinkled canvas. “Winchesters and their canvas.” Michael says with a disappointed shake of his head. It’s a foppish gesture, at odds with John’s customary steadiness.

Sam turns slightly to locate Dean, but Dean’s already looking at him. Dean’s young eyes flick to Cas and he nods once. Cas needs to go. Someone needs to help Jack.

“Poor Jack.” Michael continues, John’s voice dripping with condescending sympathy. “I had him stuffed into your crude archangel prison, but I suppose the boy is less angel than I thought if he made it out. Tell me – is it normal for him to cough up blood?”

“Cas, you need to get back.” Sam says in a rush, before he can stop himself. “You need to help Jack _now._ ”

Sam can see the conflict warring in Cas. Cas is the strongest player on the board, but right now, they’re dead on arrival if Cas can’t back Jack up. 

“Touching.” Michael says, “Noble, even. But you’re not going anywhere. None of you are.” He raises a calloused palm, and Cas is abruptly torn off his feet. The angel pitches backwards into a parked car; a painful crunching sound bounces off motel walls as his body dents the metal.

“Shit – Cas!” someone yells, and Sam forgets once again that the young voice is Dean’s. Dean, who seems even more vulnerable to Michael as a teenager. This confrontation isn’t going to have a happy ending.

“Dean, get out of here!” Sam yells, as Michael’s blazing gaze falls on his brother. He takes a step forward to rush the archangel as a futile distraction, but before he can even put his weight fully on his leg, a force wrenches him into the air. There’s two long seconds of blurry free fall, and Sam hits the ground heavily with a sharp grunt. His forearm is scraped from the brittle asphalt, but he managed to protect his head at the last moment. Minor injuries aside, Sam shoves himself to his knees. He’s spatially disoriented, but when he looks up, he sees that Dean has taken a single step to check on him, but a dark figure looms behind him.

“Dean!” Sam yells, and it’s the only warning that Dean gets before Michael grabs him by the back of the neck and slams him bodily into the side of the Impala. The metal warps around Dean’s smaller frame. Sam takes off at a sprint. He checks over his shoulder to see that Cas is still dizzily getting to his feet. The side of his head runs red with blood, plastering hair to his forehead. “Cas, help Jack! We’ll take care of Michael!” Sam shouts.

Michael still has Dean pinned securely against the side of the Impala, but the teen’s face is murderous. Michael turns his attention from Dean, and watches Sam’s approach. John’s dark brow raises and he allows Sam to take a few more desperate steps before, with a twitch of his fingers, he slams Sam down into the asphalt. Sam’s head bounces once on the pavement, and his eyes roll in the back of his head.

“I don’t understand how humans accomplish anything if they can break so easily.” Michael says, turning his back on Sam’s still form. “You should be more grateful – as my Sword, you’ll live forever. You’ll get to watch as I burn the corruption from this word, and you’ll witness the birth of the next.”

Dean grunts as he unsuccessfully tries to escape from Michael’s casual grip. His vision ripples, and the John visage fades into a mirror of Dean before snapping back to John. “You know,” Dean bites through the pain, “I saw what you did with your last universe, and I think you could learn a thing or two about redecorating.” His voice is already losing the childish quality, and edges into its adult rumble.

Michael smiles John’s crooked grin, and the sincerity cuts deep. “Do you ever run out of such tiring jokes, Dean?”

“Do you ever run out of being a douchebag?” Dean snaps back nonsensically.

Michael’s expression is almost pitying as it traces Dean’s changing features. “Sometimes I think I’m going to miss this, after you’re locked down for good.” And then in a twitch of movement too quick for Dean to follow, Michael’s hand smashes down against his left arm. Dean hears the crack of bone before the pain sweeps over him. Dean tries to jerk away, but Michael holds him immobile against the car.

Dean’s vision goes spotty with pain, but he still catches the movement over Michael’s shoulder. Cas is coming up behind Michael, and the archangel is too focused on Dean to notice. Cas has the element of surprise, might even be able to drag Michael off him and land a few punches.

But that isn’t the choice Dean wants him to make. Without breaking eye contact with the archangel posing as his father, Dean gives a minute shake of his head. Cas hesitates. _Please, Cas, just go._ Dean pleads silently. He’s not sure if it’s a prayer or a hope, but it is undeniably desperate.

There’s a small pop of air, followed by the quiet flap of wings, and Cas is gone. Michael senses the change, and his head jerks around. John Winchester’s face twists in naked fury, and his irascible eyes flash when he turns back to Dean. “That was incalculably foolish, Dean.”

Through the throbbing pain of his broken arm, he twists his lips into a patented Dean Winchester smirk. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

The sky above Michael tinges green like an oncoming storm. “But I will be the last.”

 

No matter Cas’ earlier assurances that he would hear Jack’s prayers, Cas remains silent and frozen at Sam’s side. And now, as the two intruders catch sight of him, Jack has run out of options.

The only remaining prospect is to shut the machine off and forcibly tear Sam and Cas out of Dean’s head. Sam showed him how to properly turn the machine off, but Jack doesn’t have time to safely input all the code. He hesitates by the table, unsure of what the consequences will be if he yanks the plug on the whole machine. It might wake them up. Or it might kill them.

Dean would say something more eloquent and creative, but Jack has to settle for a muted “Damn.”

The two figures step out of the darkness of the foyer. Jack has no idea what kind of monsters he’s about to face, and his mind frantically flips through Sam Winchester’s Hunting 101 lessons. The Michael Monster on the left looks… normal, but if Jack’s learned anything about hunting, and the effects of Michael’s experiments, it’s that nothing is simple when it comes to this army. The creature to the right is angrier, jumpier, and looks like an experiment gone wrong. Flakey bits of scaly skin peel off his face under close-cropped hair. The figure on the left holds out an unexpectedly cautious hand, stopping his more manic brethren. “Wait. It’s the Nephilim.” He warns, not bothering to lower his voice. His companion gnashes his teeth in Jack’s direction, but reluctantly halts his progress across into the room. “We can be peaceable about this, son.” The deep voice continues. He holds up two hands to show he isn’t armed. “We’ve come for Michael. Hand him over and we’ll be on our way without harming you or your kin.”

Jack’s heart thuds in his chest. These two don’t know that he’s effectively powered down. It seems risky, but maybe he can bluff his way out this.

Jack holds up a hand, and feels a little ridiculous, even though this used to be second nature. This used to be _normal_. “You can’t have him.” There’s no waver in his voice, despite the anxiety that rolls through him. “Dean stays with us.”

The intruders exchange glances. The scaly-faced monster is turning red under all those scales, and looks as if he’ll implode if he has to hold himself back. Even the reasonable one gives Jack a skeptical once-over. “I’ve heard things about you, Jack.” Jack’s eye twitches at his name. “They say that you’re not as… super, as you used to be.”

He takes a challenging step forward. Jack’s internal alarm is blaring warning signals, especially after his earlier soul cleanse, but if he can’t stop these two, then there isn’t much point in holding back now.

“Big mistake.” Jack maintains flatly. His hand flexes, and he feels his narrowed eyes pool with golden grace, the only piece of his father that still remains.

And then, a firm hand comes down on his extended arm, and the power that Jack had summoned dispels like a puff of warm air. He feels it coil its way back into the equilibrium of the two contesting forces in his center. His jerks his hand away from the would-be attacker before he fully comprehends what’s happened.

“Cas?”

Cas looks exhausted, physically and mentally. Dark shadows underline his eyes, and Jack has to wonder what kind of mental ability it takes to pull yourself from someone’s mind. Jack’s focus slides over to the table, and he sees that Sam and Michael still remain seated and nonresponsive.

“Is Dean safe?” Jack has to ask, even with danger steps away.

Cas’ eyes flicker to Jack’s before landing back on their two enemies. Jack can see Cas weighing the decision to shield Jack with a lie, or hurt him with the truth. “No, he isn’t.” He answers finally, and he takes a protective step to put himself between the Michael Monsters and Jack. “But he will be. Dean will be okay.”

 

Dean Winchester is dead.

Sam struggles for consciousness sluggishly, groaning as his head pounds and his knee screams at him. His eyes crack open and stare straight into his brother’s dead eyes.

It’s like an adrenaline shot to the heart. All the pain melts into the background, leaving behind a cold, hollow emptiness. Sam pulls himself to his knees, sharp rocks painfully digging through his jeans and hands as he crawls the few feet to his brother’s side. His hands hover over Dean without real comprehension. Dean’s glassy eyes stare at nothing, and flecks of blood dot his face like crimson freckles. The corpse cooling under Sam’s hands is Dean at his proper age, like Michael beating him to death somehow sped up Dean’s physical aging. Or Sam was unconscious longer than he guessed, and Michael took his time.

Sam’s hands drop to his brother’s chest, and there’s no rising breath, no steady thud of a heart beating… there’s nothing. Dean is gone.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

The back of Sam’s neck prickles, but he doesn’t turn around immediately. “I’m going to kill you.” Sam promises thickly. Fire. Brimstone. Nitrogen.

There’s a huff of a laugh, and Sam’s head turns mechanically.

Michael’s back in Dean’s visage, and it stings even more with his fallen brother broken under his hands. Michael casually leans against the Impala. The windows have been blown in and part of the door is sunken in where a thrown body dented the car. Blood, near-black and viscous, is dribbled and smeared along the car, spreading out behind Michael like gory wings. Michael waits until he has Sam’s full attention.

“The fascinating aspect of this whole charade is that all of this is just… nonsense.” He sweeps a hand grandly at their surroundings. “This is all just a projection of Dean’s mind. Dean only dies because he thinks he can. He only bleeds and breaks because he thinks that he _must_. Humans are so… limited in scope.” Michael snaps his fingers and from a corpse, Dean surges back to life, gasping.

His eyes catch Sam’s, slivers of green bright with life, and Sam can’t get air into his lungs. Dean is whole again, only residual blood darkens his clothing and dries on his skin. Dean looks around, clear-eyed and reactive. His back is to Michael, but he pushes himself up to sitting position and scrutinizes the horror still plastered across Sam’s face. “Sam?” Dean asks, “Are you okay?”

Michael’s eyes lazily find Sam’s, and he snaps his fingers. A sucking, choking sound escapes from Dean’s throat, and one hand shoots up to wrap around his throat.

“Dean!” Sam yells, and can hardly hear Michael’s laugh over Dean’s desperate gasping.

“I removed his lungs. Took a page from your world’s Zachariah. He had some vision, didn’t he? There’s always room for a little creativity.” Michael pushes off the car lightly, and takes a few steps closer to where Dean is still trying to pull oxygen into mislaid lungs. Sam’s grip on Dean’s shoulder tightens, but he can only watch helplessly as his brother slowly suffocates.

“Why are you _doing_ this?” Sam demands, and his eyes snap up to the archangel’s. Michael stares coolly down at him, his face blank of all emotion.

Sam remembers dully that all of Michael’s posturing and affected amusement is all just… false. A lie. This is a being that might look human, might look exactly like his brother, but Michael is really just grace, discipline, and bad intentions shaken together and dropped into a vessel. Sam shivers, but presses on. “You aren’t accomplishing anything. You can do this for the rest of eternity, and you won’t gain anything. You can’t just get _rid_ of us.”

Michael studies the pair in steely silence, and a muscle tenses in his jaw. Then, like an exhalation of breath, his features relax into their usual affected poise. “Fine.” He agrees, and he snaps his fingers. The fading choking sounds from Dean turn to heavy gasps as air finally claws into his restored lungs.  “You’re right. Maybe I can’t just drop you into a hole and let you claw your way out. But have you forgotten where we _are_? What I control?” A corner of his mouth quirks, and he lightly taps the side of his head. “Oh, that’s right. Sammy gets it.” He adds, seeing the realization of Michael’s plan bloom on Sam’s face. “This is all 100% lean mean Dean. And I cannot _wait_ to introduce you to the next one.”

Sam turns to face his brother, but Dean is already waiting. His face is pale, and his breathing is ragged, but Dean is focused and _present._

“Don’t give up on me, Sam.” And there’s only a trace of the real fear and exhaustion that Dean must be fighting. “I’ve remembered before. I always remember.” He insists. Sam’s grip tightens on Dean’s shoulder. He can’t bring himself to watch Michael kill Dean all over again. And again and again.

Dean’s face doesn’t twitch when the manhole cover by his feet explodes like a geyser. Water erupts around them, swallowing Dean first. Sam manages a last glance at Michael, who calmly watches on. Michael’s hand is already raised in front of him, and his eyebrow arches in contempt. “Charming.” He says dryly. His finger snaps, and then everything is purged by flood waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the final two paragraph two chapters ago. This whole chapter was basically written in pieces, and then I had to connect all of them, so it's a little choppy/rushed? Not especially pleased with this chapter, but I don't want to do what I did last time and just sit on it. I do think my favorite line is in this chapter, but I don't want to say which one it is...
> 
> I've been looking forward to writing next chapter's Sam and Dean scene for weeks, so I'm very excited we're finally here.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> italicized lines are quotes from different episodes/scenes from Supernatural #callbacks. (For people that haven't rewatched supernatural recently, this is mainly Season 10 ep 2.)

His fingers rest on the piano keys, cool and tranquil. Like the last note of a symphony hovering in the air, like a song of redemption played in reverse. His fingers rest on the piano keys, and it’s the stillness of air before a storm.

He doesn’t play, but finds it calming. Metal strings stretch in the piano’s open cavity like sinew, tendons that stretch and ripple at the tiniest tap. His finger sinks a glossy white key, and as the note reverberates around his skull, he imagines a tendon snapping, severing the connection of muscle to bone. Tendons split like ripstop nylon, hard to tear, but everything has its breaking point.

His fist balances on the piano’s lid, and he raises his eyes from the keys to watch his hand unclench. His hand is clean, unscarred. Maybe too clean. Maybe not clean enough. The First Blade, never far away, is in his hand like a second heartbeat, and he feels cool slickness as its edge splits his palm like the smear of ink bifurcating a page.

_What are you, Dean? A demon? Maybe you’re a human._

_Pick a bloody side._

The slice in his skin heals over without a drop of spilled blood. Dean can’t see his reflection in the gleaming piano surface, but can sense the snick of black eyes, like a fingernail tapping on a chitin shell. Dean considers the Blade in his hand, pictures sinking it in deeper, reaching bone. Seeing what happens next. Finding the breaking point.

Dean has company, however. Best not to keep him waiting. He sets the First Blade on the piano next to his drink, and his hands drop lightly back to the keys, slick under his fingers like teeth.

“Hiya, Sam.” The unanswered greeting hangs in the air until it stagnates, and Dean finally raises his eyes to meet Sam’s.

Sam is different. Older. Dean doesn’t care to remember the last time he laid eyes on his brother –

_I got to say something to you. / What? / I’m proud of us._

 – but his brother looks at least half a decade older, and the years haven’t been kind. Sam watches him from the other side of the bar, quiet and searchingly, like he’s trying to see which Dean is left after all the blood and death of the past months have settled. It’s irksome, and Dean feels his hand twitch towards the Blade.

“Hey, Harv, why don’t you go grab a smoke?” Dean calls over to the bartender, who cleans ash trays on the bar. Harvey takes one look at the two figures, drinks in the tension, and drops his rag on the bar. Sam’s eyes track the man as he leaves.

Dean sucks his tongue against his teeth. “Who winged you?”

Sam’s forehead creases, and he glances down to see what Dean’s referring to. Dean frowns, unsure why he asked that. Sam is older and tired, but unharmed. Dean’s eyes catch on Sam’s right arm, and he swears that when Sam walked in, it looked like was wearing a sling. _Doesn’t matter what he wears coming in; he’s wearing a body bag on his way out._ And a bright point of bloodlust drums steadily in the back of his mind.

“Dean,” Sam says, and his hands come up like a white flag, “this isn’t… you’re not…”

Dean stops listening. His hand twitches to pick up the Blade, but he redirects the movement and wraps his fingers around his whiskey glass. “I told you to let me go.”

“You know I can’t do that. I made a promise.”

Dean smiles, and it turns sharp. He knocks back the last of the amber liquid. “A promise.” He repeats. “To who, Crowley?” He laughs. “He sold me out, right? Sounds like him.” Dean stands from the piano, and his hand closes around the Blade. It leaves behind a razor thin scratch from its slow drag across the polished surface.

Sam takes a step around a bar table, to put a little distance between himself and Dean. Dean passes by like Sam isn’t even there, and approaches the bar. Sam struggles to form a complete fucking sentence, and it’s pissing Dean off.

“Dean, you need to focus. This isn’t real. This isn’t you.”

“Isn’t the real – are you fucking serious?” Dean pauses an arm length away from the tequila. “That’s what this is about? Come on, Sam, you’re more stupid than I thought if you thought you could just walk in here, casual as you please, and convince me to shoot up blood? Throw in a little Latin as a chaser? Did you ever stop to think that if I wanted to be cured, I wouldn’t have _bailed_?”

Dean turns his back and his hand curls around the neck of the bottle. Liquid splashes into the side of the glass, splatters against his fingers. He wipes his hand absently on a dirty cocktail napkin and tosses it over the edge of the bar.

“Dean, you need to fight this. You’re going to get stuck in the loop again. This is all just… the past. It’s a trick, a memory that Michael stuck us in. We’ve already _done_ all of this. Don’t you remember? Don’t you – “

_It doesn’t matter, all right? ‘Cause whatever went down, whatever happened… we will fix it._

There’s a flash of pain in Dean’s skull, the first real discomfort he’s felt since Metatron slid a shining blade through him and walked away. He’d brought the drink halfway to his lips, but he pauses, and the tequila hovers between sobriety and consumption. He eases it back down to the bar, careful not to spill a drop.

“I’m giving you a chance, Sam. You should take it.” He suggests, and the words are a caution. They’re a head start. “I’m not walking out that door with you.”

Sam takes a step forward, which quietly infuriates Dean. What part of him is giving Sam mixed signals? What is Sam seeing that makes him think that Dean is giving warm and cuddly vibes, and not like he could –

– _come over there and rip your throat out… with my teeth._

 _Fuck_. Another slash of pain, imbedded in Dean’s skull like a bullet. Dean flinches, but doesn’t take his eyes off Sam’s approach, and definitely doesn’t take a step back. He’s given his warning. Whatever happens next… that’s on Sam. But Dean is happy to deliver on his end.

“Listen to me.” Sam pleads earnestly, “If you don’t fight this, Michael is going to win. He’s going to beat us, and you – “

“Michael?” Dean gibes, “That your new buddy on the phone? You can bring him in, now, _Sammy_ , and all your other pals. It’s not going to be even close to enough. Where’s the arsenal? You don’t even look like you’re packing your Taurus.” Dean decides to give the tequila another try, and grips it by the rim. “Fucking amateur hour.” He mutters into his reflection in the booze, and tosses it back.

Sam opens his mouth, but it falls shut as something like remembrance dawns in his expression. He spins on his back heel to face the back of the dive, and a split second later, the center of the window shatters as something small and dense crashes through the single pane glass. Gas instantly begins to pour out of the small device, and Dean watches as the bar fills with white smoke. Sam is already lurching towards the back-alley door, coughing and trying to suck in clean air.

He hears the hollow thud of flesh against bone, but turns back to the bar to pour one last drink. What’s the hurry? Malignant fog swirls around him from the canister, ineffectively filling his lungs, but it’s almost pleasant. Gives the alcohol a tangy finish.

The glass he leaves on the bar. Dean tucks the First Blade into the back waistband of his jeans, and picks his way around abandoned bar tables to exit through the front doors, like the paying customer he most certainly is not.

The happy hour crowd hasn’t arrived, and the parking lot is emptied of cars, people, and the more specific subset of people who throw tear gas through bar windows. Dean steps around the corner, and finds just the man he was looking for.

The figure steps out from the alley, wreathed in fog from the gas pouring out of the back door that Sam rudely left ajar after losing consciousness.

“Wow. It’s really you.” The obscured man says, and steps out of the alley. He looks like a G.I. Joe doll that Dean begged for as a kid. All hard lines, military-grade clothing, short-cropped hair. Knives, guns. Dean can appreciate that kind of preparation.

“Cole Fuckin’ Trenton.” Dean announces loudly. “How the hell are you?”

Cole looks taken aback, and his gun hesitates over Dean. “You know who I am?” The former Marine surveys the loading area, as if to see if he’s being set up.

“Talked on the phone.” Dean replies, but now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember the marine dropping his name alongside the threat of blackmail. “You’re the guy who’s supposed to put a bullet in Sammy’s brain.” Dean eyes the fallen body of his brother in the dimness of the alley, unconscious but alive. “Did you miss?”

Cole trains the gun on Dean’s chest, and steps further into the light. “Well, I had a better idea. I figure if I let your bro escape, he’d go running to you, and all I had to do was just tag along. And now here we are - finally. Dean Winchester.”

Dean nods along with the explanation as if in agreement, but mostly to move the fucking story along. He waits for the bullet. He hasn’t been shot before. Post-Mark, of course. He’s curious. Will it sting, like a loose tooth digging into the gum? Or will it rip through a few layers of flesh and muscle on its way?

“Great. A groupie.”

“If you know my stripes, you know I’m no fan of yours, Winchester, but we do go back… I think they call those _life-defining moments._ Nyack, New York, June 21, 2003.”

“That supposed to ring a bell?”

“It was the night you gutted and murdered a man by the name of Edward Trenton. He was my father.”

Dean waits for the punchline. “Okay.”

The gun shakes in Cole’s grip, but not from fear. From restraint. From needing what all the kids always cry about needing – closure. “ _‘Okay_?’” He repeats, like he hadn’t quite heard right.

Dean shrugs his shoulders callously, feels a pop in his spine. “Well, hey, I’m not saying I didn’t slice and dice your old man. I’m just saying he wasn’t the first, and he certainly wasn’t the last. And they all just kind of get blended up.”

Cole’s face is hard and desperate. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. How was it possible to look the man that killed his father in the _eyes_ , and see not a drop of remorse? Not even a glimmer of recognition? “I saw you.” He insists. “That night… after. You let me live. That was dumb, _real_ dumb.” He takes a few agitated steps closer to his target.

Dean waits for the conversation to take a more apposite turn. Otherwise, he’s just going to rip the man’s head off and get back to his tequila.

“I spent half my life training for this moment.” Cole continues, after a steadying breath. “I’ve played this fight a thousand times in my mind. And I know all about you, Dean-o. And you’re good. Oh, you’re _real_ good. But, you see, I’m better.”

Dean’s beginning to get bored. He’s heard this _all_ before, over and over. His life used to be one big swirling pot of revenge, for this offense and that reason. Mom dead, Dad dead, brother dead, _everyone_ dead. It’s just so much easier to be the one doing the killing. He understands that now. He sees that he was on the wrong side of the fight, and the grass is just oh-so-much bloodier on the other side.

He lets Cole’s empty threat hang in the air for a moment, before leaning in for the kill. “Prove it. Take a shot.” He spreads his arms, waits for the bullet. Maybe he’ll spit it out onto his palm like one of those cartoons.

A beat pulses in Cole’s jaw. His finger twitches on the trigger in temptation, but his hands come up, and the gun points at the sky. “Now, that’s not payback.” He says, almost friendly. A knife slides from the holster at his waist, and Dean almost sighs. That’s nothing new, won’t break up the monotony that’s become Dean’s days. “ _This_ is payback.”

He shoots forward, but his knife slides into empty space. He angles the knife upwards, but Dean’s already gone. Dean catches the next slice, and Cole’s eyes finally show a hint of fear as Dean twists him in the other direction. Dean could have plucked the knife from Cole’s grasp and picked his teeth with it before Cole would have even noticed.

The kid is fast though, Dean has to give him that. He smiles, and the sun lights up his face. Cole throws himself back into the scrape, refusing to be stopped here. And, as Dean dodges to the side and grabs Cole’s knife arm, he wishes that he could show Cole how much _easier_ this whole thing can be if he just stops _caring._ The knife drops and bounces against the pavement as Dean disarms Cole, and the marine clips the parked car at his back.

It’s fists and punches now, but Dean’s lost interest. He catches Cole’s follow-up kick and twists the man’s leg until he can pull the gun from the holster strapped to his calf. “You know,” he drawls, and pops the magazine out of the gun. He hasn’t used a gun since he died, and doesn’t feel the need to start using one now, “and I’m just spitballing here, but, uh, maybe…” the gun hits the pavement next to the fallen mag, “you are not as good as you think you are.”

_Those stories that we tell to keep us going?_

And Dean’s vision fogs over, colors bleeding into each other.

_Man, sometimes they blind us. They take us to dark places –_

Dean’s head splits with the sudden headache. He staggers backwards, and when he looks up again, Cole is there, but he’s dressed different, and he has another gun trained on Dean. Sam stands armed over Cole’s shoulder. What is –

_– the kind of place where I might beat the crap out of a good man just for the fun of it._

Dean groans, and a hand flies to his head. His skull feels like it’s a cracked egg, and everything is going to pour out of him. His arm stings, and he glances down, sees the Mark – _the_ Mark of Cain – and for the length of a single breath, Dean stares at it without recognition. He knows something is wrong, if he scratches a little harder, he can break it down, he can -  

Something heavy collides with Dean’s chest, and he plunges backwards. His back hits the side of the dumpster, and he blindly scrambles to his feet. The Mark _burns_ , fuck – it _hurts._ Dean’s knees almost collapse underneath him and he almost reaches for the First Blade, he needs to slice this Mark off, it’s going to _kill_ him, it’s going to –

The Mark glows red under the skin, and it pulses once, and Dean shivers as he feels something sweep over him, like a coolness. It wipes away the pain from his body, and deadens the fog in his mind. The last few seconds are a jumble, _what happened?_ Dean feels like he went toe to toe with the Mark and lost… something. Something important.

The original Cole stands over him, and there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. Dean straightens from his pained crouch. He’s already forgetting the episode, and the Mark pulses on his arm like it hasn’t for months.

Vengeance wins over caution in Cole, and the marine lunges in to follow up the kick that he finally had landed. Dean’s mind is crisp and clear. He lets Cole try and land a few swings, before he catches him bodily around the waist and trips him heavily do the ground.

Cole pants into the pavement, exhausted. Dean paces a few steps, pent up energy sizzling and boiling under his skin. He feels fucking _alive_ , he feels like he can slit Cole’s throat, and paint the walls with all that _color_ inside of him.

“What did you think was going to happen here?” He taunts, as the man at his feet struggles to pull air into his lungs, “You just stroll up here and say, ‘My name is Inigo Montoya.’ And well…” he leans over Cole, “Dot dot dot... You know the rest.”

He hears the singing of metal before he sees the movement, and Cole’s arm streaks out with a flash of silver. Dean feels a blade slash the flesh of his cheek, and the Mark almost _sings_ like a chorus of fucking angels – demanding bloody recompense. He recovers his balance, and when Cole comes in for the killing swing, Dean bats his hand aside like swatting a fly, and his fingers close around Cole’s neck. Dean smells sulfur and the metallic zing of gunpowder and blood as he feels his cheek knit together. “You have no idea what you walked into here, do you?” The burn from the heal fades away, and Dean catches Cole’s disbelieving look at Dean’s unmarred skin, even as blood drips down his own face. The Mark roars against Dean’s skin. “None.”

“What are you?” Cole struggles in his grasp.

Dean lets the silence hang, lets Cole draw his own conclusions. Then his eyes flick to flint and he smiles. “I’m a demon.”

Cole only gets a glimpse before Dean cracks his forehead into the marine’s. He feels Cole’s blood smear against his forehead, and he wipes it off with the palm of his hand. He slides a thumb through the sticky liquid as Cole struggles to get back of his feet. The man throws a wild punch, still disoriented from the skull-cracking. Dean dodges the swing easily, and uses the force behind Cole’s thrust to send him tumbling to the ground. Cole is slowing down, from injury or from exhaustion, and doesn’t try and get to his feet. Dean decides that there’s always room for a little chivalry – that’s the _Winchester way_. He roughly flips Cole over, batting away the man’s struggling arms without much effort. Cole cries out as Dean crushes him against the side of the car, and again when Dean’s fist slams into the side of his face.

Dean feels the manic pulsing of the First Blade from where it’s pressed into his spine, and who is he to stop the lady from having some fun? The handle is warm in his palm, and he presses it lightly into Cole’s throat.

The man is utterly defeated. Dean watches the light die in Cole’s eyes, and sees the emptiness reflected in them as Cole realizes that his mission, his purpose, was crushed to dust before his eyes. He accomplished nothing, except succumb to the same killer who slaughtered his father.

“Do it!” He screams in Dean’s face, and _there_ it is. _That’s_ what Dean was waiting for. “You said if you saw me, you would _kill_ me, so _do it!_ ”

_I quit._

_No, no you don’t. You don’t get to quit. We don’t get to quit in this family. This family is_ all _we have ever had._

_Well, then, we got nothing._

“I guess I changed my mind.” He hears a voice say, and he’s only partly convinced it’s him. His head throbs, but not with pain. Just with… pressure. His hand releases Cole automatically, and the unconscious marine slides down the side of the car. The pressure in Dean’s head increases, and as if provoked, the Mark of Cain erupts. Heat swims up Dean’s arm like fire in his blood, and his hand clenches painfully tight on the grip of the First Blade.

Dean doesn’t know what’s happening, why the feeling of _wrongness_ floods through him. Why it feels like the Mark is fighting something inside him, a disease eating its own host. Mutually assured destruction, with Dean in the middle. The pressure intensifies in Dean’s head until it finally tips the scale to sheer, piercing pain, and Dean’s knees hit the rough asphalt before he even realized he was falling. His knuckles press _hard_ into the ground, and in that small pain, Dean finds a level of awareness.

A shadow blocks the sun, and Dean turns pained eyes up, expecting to see the recovered specter of Cole ready for another round. But it’s only Sam’s worried face, and Dean tries to push the internal struggle down, tries to flip the Blade in his grip so he can slice Sam from stomach to spine and spill his syrupy entrails onto the ground. But his arm with the Mark burns like a brand, and Dean can’t move it. His head falls between his arms, and he doesn’t know if the deafening roar sounds from him or the Mark.

“Dean!” Sam yells, but it’s like it’s coming from underwater. “Dean, you need to remember! Come on, you can fight – you need to remember. _Hitomi Plaza._ ”

_Hitomi Plaza._

The wall in his head crumbles to ash, and the Mark flares up with one last futile effort to smother the memories down, before it returns to its usual buzzing presence. A dark calm spreads over Dean like he’s been submerged in water.

“Dean?”

_Sammy, you know I hate shots._

_I hate demons._

“Dean, are you okay? Do you… do you remember?”

_Let me ask you this, Sammy. If this doesn’t work… we both know what you got to do to me, right?_

A warm hand grips Dean’s shoulder and tightens in either fear or comfort. Dean takes a breath, as the residual pain leaves his limbs. His eyes, which stared blindly forward, now flick from green to black. Dean smiles and spits a mouthful of blood on the ground.

_You got the stomach for that, Sam?_

“Come on, Dean, we need to get out of here before Michael – “

 Dean doesn’t catch the rest of that sentence, as Sam has unfortunately caught the flat of Dean’s hand to his solar plexus, and is swept off his feet. Sam lands heavily on his back, and gasps as the wind is knocked from his lungs. Dean wipes bloody saliva from the corner of his mouth and pulls himself to his feet.

The First Blade sings in his hand. It calls for Sam’s blood. Dean and Sam Winchester. Michael and Lucifer. Cain and Abel.

Dean takes a slow step towards Sam, who finally chokes in a breath of air, and scrambles back to his feet. He takes a step back, hands raised. “No cuffs, no holy water.” He insists, and his voice is rough. “This is just a memory, you’re not – _we’re_ not really here.”

“Oh, I know.” Dean replies. “I remember _everything._ And you know what I remember most of all, Sammy?”

Sam’s face is a study of turmoil– confusion, disbelief, worry. But there’s not enough _fear_ there for the Mark’s taste. Not yet.

“You slapped those cuffs on, poured enough holy water on me to put out a fire. And then what? Then what did you do next, _Sammy?_ ” Dean lunges forward and slams into Sam, still dazed from his earlier fall. Sam hits the ground and doesn’t get back up. “You shot me up with so much fucking _blood_ that I _died_ , Sam. You _killed_ me.”

Sam is laid out, but recovering his senses. “No.” He insists. “No, Dean, we saved - we cured you! Cas and I did everything that we could to get you back to – “

“Sam.” Dean interrupts quietly, and crouches down next to Sam. “You got your _brother_ back. But I’m _not_ your brother, anymore. And this?” He holds up his right arm, where the sleeve is shoved up past his elbow. The Mark of Cain gleams under the skin, like a living, squirming creature. Dean smiles at the delayed fear in Sam’s eyes. “You took this from me. And then you killed me.” Dean’s fist cracks against Sam’s cheek bone, and Dean’s knuckles come away bloody. “And I don’t ever forget something like _that._ ”

Sam sees the figure first, sees the form rise up behind Dean.

“You see, Dean?” Cole’s voice calls out. Dean’s fist curls furiously into Sam’s shirt collar, but he looks over his shoulder. Cole stands tall, face bloodied and scraped. Then a cloud passes over the sun, and there’s the tell-tale flash of grace in his bruised eyes. “You fight so hard for your family, for your _place_ in that foul, corrupt world. But what have they done for you, other than tear you apart? What has the world done, except take it _all_ away, every time? Even the brother that lies before you only wants to take you away from _this_ ,” Dean turns black eyes back to his brother, “from your place in this world. With that Mark on your arm, you were the most powerful being in creation. Unstoppable. A _god_.”

Dean’s jaw tightens as Michael’s words roll over him. Sam searches Dean’s eyes for any sign of his brother, for any glimpse of green human eyes in a sea of murky black. It makes Dean sick. _This_ was the culmination of his evolution, his life as _Dean Winchester._ And the man before him took that all away from him, because he would stop at _nothing_ to get Big Brother Dean back.

Dean’s teeth bare in animalistic fury, and his fist rockets down towards Sam’s face again. Skin splits under his knuckles, and a wash of red pours down the side of Sam’s face like a curtain of blood.

Michael laughs over his shoulder and takes a step closer. “Seems like it wasn’t the right memory I needed to find. Just the right Dean Winchester.”

 “Yeah.” Dean agrees through clenched teeth. “About that.”

And the First Blade sings through the air like a bloody hymn and Dean buries it hilt-deep in Michael’s abdomen. Cole’s surprised eyes widen and spark blue, as the angel takes a faltering step backwards, pulling the Blade from his stomach. Blue-white grace leaks like static from Michael’s wound, crackling like electricity.

Michael’s eyes are livid as he turns his dimming gaze to Dean. The shiny black of Dean’s eyes evaporates like mist until only choleric green remains, regarding Michael as his presence fades from the memory of Cole’s body. “You're also on my shit list.”

 

In the Bunker, Michael’s eyes fly open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Supernatural scene was my favorite in the entire series. Jensen was phenomenal, and I've been excited to write this chapter since I started this fic in December. But EW was I gagging at the piano/body metaphor and the "syrupy entrails" part. Gross.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting!


	13. Chapter 13

The Winchesters are a blight on Creation.

When he succeeds in bringing this world under his control, he will rip open a hundred rifts – a _thousand._ He will find each and every instance of the Winchesters, and will scatter their souls deep in the heart of an exploding star. He will savor each moment that every single molecule of their existence screams, and _burns_. He is an assemblage of celestial ambition and design, grace and omnipotence. He is the apotheosis of everything _good_ that his Father created. Compared to God’s original holy creations, humans are mere… electrical impulses in lumps of clay.

And he will start with Mary Winchester, the woman that subverted destiny.

When Mary Campbell refused to make the deal for John Winchester’s life, and ended the destined bloodline that would produce his Michael Sword, Michael raged across the heavens. His rancor and wrath rained on a small town in Southern Turkey, and thousands died from pestilence and plague.

And when Mary _Winchester_ and another Lucifer crossed into his world, Michael felt the electric thrill of fate. Here was Mary Winchester, the woman that should have been in _his_ universe, instead of the decade-old corpse that hardly left a smear in his new world. The one who wouldn’t say _yes_ to Azazel and finally, at the acme following millennia of divine interventions, ruined the fulfillment of the bloodline that would birth his perfect vessel. John Winchester rotted in the ground, and Mary followed mere decades later. Michael ripped the pair from their heavens, and crushed their souls to ether. And _that_ is the true punishment of thwarting destiny –oblivion.

And later, Michael can remember the revelation of finding Dean Winchester threaded through Lucifer’s memories. He scoured every inch of Lucifer’s head, hunting for the glitch of the Michael Sword’s existence.

Impossible. And yet.

Dean Winchester entered his universe like a ripple. A ping on the cosmic radar. When the Michael Sword crossed the rift into Michael’s world, Michael felt his vessel’s presence. But Michael had no sense of ownership, no temptation to claim his true vessel. Why would he? He saw with Lucifer’s own eyes what would have happened to himself had Dean Winchester been born into his timeline. He would have been shoved into the cage, tortured by his brother for centuries. The Michael Sword had become toxic, a contamination that was too dangerous to not expunge from this world.

He remembers strangling the life from Dean Winchester.

_Could’ve done this quick, but I wanted to enjoy it. That moment when the soul leaves the body?_

His hand tightening against the vessel’s throat, watching the emptiness bloom in liquid green eyes.

_It’s beautiful._

The Nephilim rips Michael’s vessel apart from the inside, golden waves slicing through Michael’s grace like blades through flesh. And then through the red haze of a failing vessel, the stuttering of human organs and tissues, comes the Michael Sword’s offer:

_If we do this, it’s a one-time deal. I’m in charge. You’re the engine, but I’m behind the wheel. Understand?_

Michael will kill Dean, when it’s all over, after his nephew and brother have been dealt with. It isn’t worth the risk, not after seeing this world’s Michael soundly defeated and shivering in the corner of hell, eyes wild and wings in bloody shreds. But his current vessel was failing, and Michael is nothing, if not a survivor.

So, he’ll wait. And he’ll shred this Dean Winchester to slivers on his way out, to atoms that not even his Father can pluck from the abyss.

And after, as they stand over the burned-out vessel that once held Michael’s most beloved brother, Michael stretches his wings inside his Sword, he overhears their ridiculous congratulations.

“You did it.”

“No.” The Michael Sword replies. “No, we did it.”

And Michael thinks: _We?_

Michael reaches deep into his vessel. He feels the thrum of potential, his increased capacity for strength inside these walls. He has never occupied a vessel before and felt this sense of culmination. His grace whirls and pools in eddies running through Dean Winchester’s soul, powering the vessel like it’s an extension of Michael’s true form.

All previous vessels, in a line of consumption, eventually burned from the inside. Even if Michael handled the vessel with the care it didn’t deserve, it would always crumble at the slightest extension of grace. A mere flex of power.

But in the Michael Sword, in Dean Winchester, Michael can finally stretch his wings and not scratch the sides.

Why should he give that up?

_Thanks for the suit._

And Michael realized that perhaps destiny is never truly subverted, only postponed.

In the Bunker, Michael’s eyes fly open.

 

Sam lies on the ground and thinks about how he’s really getting too old. Older than he wants to be, older than he _thought_ he’d be. And too old to really be lying in a parking lot getting his ass kicked.

“Dean?”

“Shut the fuck up for a minute, Sam.” snaps the biting reply, and Sam’s teeth click together as he closes his mouth. His face is already a mess, no reason to tick off the man with sledgehammer hands. And if Dean’s talking, then Dean’s not stabbing.

The sky spins above him and Sam shuts his eyes to fight off the nausea, wondering how someone could possibly experience _nausea_ inside someone else’s brain. Sam runs a hand haltingly down the side of his face, and makes sure the jaw isn’t dislocated before slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. His head is still ringing, and he blinks spots of white from the corner of his vision.

Finally, the world settles.

Dean kneels rigidly next to Cole’s body. Sam can only see his brother’s back, and the tension in the set of his shoulders.

Once Sam is sure that the dizziness is gone, he pulls himself gingerly to his feet. The left side of his face is a bruised and bloodied, and the right side is scraped from where it bounced on the pavement. Dean has a mean follow-through. Sam thinks he possibly pulled a muscle in his back from his second fall, and he definitely feels sore from Dean’s first punch to his chest.

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam coughs, and spits a wad of bloody spit on the ground. “Why does your mind need to be so damn realis – Dean?”

Sam finally steps around to Dean’s side, and sees why his brother isn’t moving. Dean is wooden, and every muscle that Sam can see is tense and brittle, like Dean is holding himself together with pure determination and self-control. Dean’s left hand grips his Marked arm tight enough that Sam is surprised that he can’t hear bones creaking.

“Dean,” he says quietly, taking a step closer, “what’s wrong?”

Dean’s teeth are clenched together, and he doesn’t look up at his brother. Sam tracks his gaze and sees that Dean’s eyes are riveted on the First Blade. A thrill of fear breathes up Sam’s spine when he sees that it’s imbedded deep in Cole’s body, surrounded by at least six other stab wounds. Post-mortem. There’s a hazy few moments in Sam’s memory following Dean driving the Blade into Michael’s abdomen, and he must have been knocked senseless to not have noticed Dean mutilating a corpse.

Dean’s arm shakes in his grasp, twitching towards the Blade. Sam extends his hand unconsciously towards Dean, but it hovers inches away. The Mark of Cain glows under Dean’s skin like burning flesh.

“Just…” Dean spits through his teeth, “Just walk away, Sam.” Sam is about to protest, but Dean says “It’s fading… it’s… ah, _fuck_ -”

And Sam can see, finally – the Mark is disappearing, though it’s certainly putting up a hell of a fight in Dean.

But the Mark isn’t the real Mark of Cain. It’s Dean’s _memory_ of the Mark, and it will fade, like everything always does as Dean’s mind reorders and rebuilds his memories. Once Sam is satisfied that the Mark is actually disappearing, he backs off to give Dean space. Rubbing a hand absentmindedly on a new bruise on his ribs, Sam walks to the Impala. It’s parked on the other side of the lot, where Sam remembers finding it the first time. Mindful of the pulled muscle in his back, he eases himself to the ground and leans against the tire.

Dean eventually unclenches his muscles, which was starting to make Sam’s own muscles hurt. Dean shakes his arms out and paces up and down the back of the lot, walking off pent-up energy. Sam watches as Dean slaps his arm a few times where the Mark is, but can’t see from the distance if it’s still there. He says nothing as Dean eventually ceases pacing, coming closer to stand over Cole’s corpse. Dean’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s remorse and self-reproach if you know what to look for. And Sam knows that Dean is back.

That doesn’t stop him from nearly bolting to his feet when Dean leans over and draws the First Blade out of Cole’s gut.

But Dean seems merely troubled as he crosses the parking lot towards Sam. He pauses a few feet away and studies Sam’s face from a distance. There’s a glimpse of the guilt and nerves that Dean’s smothering down, but Sam offers Dean a smile instead of an accusation. He pats the ground next to him, but Dean doesn’t move.

“Sorry about your face.”

“What about my back?”

“Eh.”

Sam laughs, and regrets it, because it hurts. Finally, Dean drops heavily next to Sam, and they both lean back against the car. Their car. Sam sneaks a glance at Dean’s arm, and sees it’s freckled with blood splatters and a dark red smear is dried from wrist to elbow, but the Mark… the Mark is gone.

"You good?” Because Sam has to ask.

“I’m good.” Because Dean has to answer. The First Blade is still tight in his grip, and he turns it over and over in his hands. It’s gruesome, especially saturated in Cole’s blood, but there isn’t bloodlust or coldness in Dean’s eyes. Sam nudges Dean’s foot with his own, and when Dean glances up, he nods his question at the Blade.

Dean’s eyes drop back to the weapon, but he stops shifting it around. “I never held it without the Mark of Cain. I didn’t know what it would be like.” Sam holds his palm out and Dean drops it in his hand without hesitation. “I know it’s not _the_ First Blade. I know that. I just wanted to see… I don’t know, it feels stupid.”

“It’s just bone, Dean. Without the Mark, it’s just another weapon.”

Dean looks down at his bloody hands and represses a shiver. “I know. But it didn’t used to feel like that. It used to feel… like I _needed_ it. When the Mark got worse, and Crowley had the Blade, or Cas had the Blade, it felt like my arm had been ripped off.” His right hand flexes but Dean tries to cover it by scratching at blood that’s soaked into his jeans.

“We don’t really… talk about it. The Mark.” Sam admits.

Dean shrugs. “We don’t talk about a lot of things.”

 _Maybe we should._ But Sam doesn’t say anything, and the moment passes.

“You think Michael’s coming back?” Sam asks, and sets the Blade aside.

Dean’s eyes flick up to Cole’s body, and his jaw sets. “Yes.” He answers, and there’s no hesitation.

"What should we do?”

“I don’t know what we can do, Sammy. But…” and something uncomfortable and awkward passes behind Dean’s expression, “But I… I’m really glad that you’re here. Don’t get me wrong, I think you and Cas are stupid as hell for trying to crack me out of the joint, but… it helps, in here. It helps me.”

“We’ll figure out how to get rid of Michael, Dean. I promise.”

Dean smiles down at his hands, but there’s no hiding the skepticism. “I know you will, Sammy.” And they both know he’s lying. “But you can’t stay in here forever. A man needs his privacy.” He adds, but the humor falls flat.

Sam doesn’t insult his brother by pretending it’s a possibility. “Yeah, I know.” He admits. A beat passes. “What do you think Michael’s going to do when he gets back?”

It was an honest question, but Dean huffs a laugh and meets Sam’s gaze, as if trying to decide if Sam’s making a joke or not. In Dean’s eyes, Sam sees… something. Resignation, maybe. And Sam remembers what he’s been trying not to think about – that Dean’s done this over and over. He’s pulled himself up for air hundreds of times, only to have Michael shove him back underwater. Sam’s question is ridiculous – a joke – because Dean knows exactly what’s going to happen. Michael is going to kill him and try again. And again, and again.

“It’s worse every time.” Dean says suddenly, like he’s afraid if he slows down, he’ll stop. “I get… jumbled. I’m worried that parts of me don’t fit anymore. I don’t want to pull myself together and find myself standing over you, like…” and he gestures helplessly at Cole’s cooling body.

“Dean, I’m not going anywhere until we figure out what to do about Michael. And we know that you can hurt him, now, in here. He said something while you were… unconscious, in the last memory, something that made me think –“

“Come now, Sam, do share with the class.”

Sam and Dean are on their feet before the voice has finished talking. The voice comes from… everywhere, bouncing off walls and alleys without a point of origin. Sam finds the First Blade in his grip, which is next to worthless without the Mark. Sam and Dean exchange a quick glance, and then: the sound of wings.

Michael lands in the memory like he’s stepping out of the air. He’s back in full Dean regalia, three-piece suit, flat cap over styled hair. Sam’s stomach flips once. He didn’t think that it would be _that_ easy to get rid of Michael, but he expected the archangel to have lost at least an ounce of his edge.

“Apologies, was I interrupting something? Don’t stop on my account.” And he raises his hands, and the pair are thrown back a few steps, pinned against the side of the Impala. The First Blade is wrenched from Sam’s grip and clatters hollowly against the asphalt. Michael’s eye catches the movement as he approaches, and he reaches down to pluck the Blade from the ground.

“The First Blade.” Michael says, like he’s reading an affixed label. “Cain’s weapon, powered by his Mark. At full strength, it can kill anything. Without the Mark of Cain?” The Blade glows red in Michael’s grip, like a fire burns at its core. The dark bone cracks up and down the length of the Blade, and Michael meets Dean’s eyes, “Without the Mark, it’s merely the jawbone of an ass.” And he closes his hand around the Blade, and Sam and Dean watch as Michael crushes the bone into pieces. Small slivers of bone fall to the pavement, and Michael dusts the remains off his hands. Sam blinks and sees Kaia’s Spear snapped in half all over again.

Dean coughs, “Speaking of an ass –”

Michael’s finger twitches and the force holding Dean ceases. Before Dean can get his weight fully under him, he’s thrown back against the car with increased force. He curses when his hip clips the side mirror, and he doesn’t open his mouth for another smart ass comment. For now.

“What were you saying before, Sam? That you can hurt me? That if you just _believe_ that you _can_ , you can defeat me? Winchesters are absolutely drenched in naiveté. Dean’s ridiculous belief that I would make and honor a deal with him? Do you make _deals_ with blades of grass before you crush them underfoot? It’s a matter of scale, boys, and we’re not even using the same standards of measurement.”

“You talk a big game for someone who’s been sitting in baby jail since taking my sweet ass for a ride.” Dean jeers, and Sam wants to tell him to stop poking at the righteous archangel before Michael decides to drop them into an even worse memory. Like Dean’s time in hell or Sam’s prom.

But Michael’s eyes flash with amusement. “Baby jail.” He repeats. “You are always so quick to open your mouth, Dean, even when it will get you killed. Well, no matter.” He smooths invisible wrinkles from his suit jacket. “I’ve already left the Bunker.”

“What?” It’s out of Sam’s mouth before he can clamp it down.

Michael smiles at the harshness in Sam’s tone, enjoying the rise he won out of him. “Oh, yes. You’ll find I’m not even in state lines anymore. Though that really is such an arbitrary distinction when you can cross the world in a blink of an eye.”

“Jack and Cas – “

Michael waves away Sam’s comment before he can finish it. “I did mention that I had a plan in the works. The fact that you chose to ignore me for this fruitless venture is your fault alone. Always leave yourself a back door, always crack an exit.” His genteel gaze drops to Dean. “Right, Dean?”

“What did you do?” Dean demands, and there’s equal parts fury and dread treaded in his voice.

“Haven’t I said? I’ve left. After all, the only true resistance was Castiel.” The small smile on his face grows, “And that was easily taken care of after I killed him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning Michael bit of this chapter was mostly a writing exercise to see how well I could write what’s going on with Michael, and the answer was: Not very well. Kind of an eh chapter, but mainly because we're entering the final stretch and I'm trying to figure out how to order the two/three different perspectives right now.
> 
> My sister hasn't read more than one chapter of my fic, and she was walking around our apartment while I was typing on the couch, and I said out loud "I'm going to kill Cas briefly." And she was like "what the fuck are you even talking about right now."


	14. Chapter 14

For a ruthless mobile-gaming angel that steals decoder rings out of cereal boxes, Cas is unquestionably unmatched in combat. Jack’s heard stories of Cas’ previous callousness and brutality – when he was more like Michael than he’d ever admit. Jack’s always considered Dean to be the brawler of this small family, and maybe it’s more to do with how Dean carries himself than anything. Sam certainly is no slouch when it comes to hunting. But Cas, with his clean-cut looks, his trenchcoat over a crisp suit, and his innocuous blue eyes… somehow Jack forgot that Cas is a force of nature. An angel that’s led armies and stopped apocalypses.

What are two B-roll Michael Monsters going to do about that?

As it turns out: they die.

And after, when Jack’s finished cleaning the blood from the floor and Cas has dragged the headless bodies back into the foyer, Jack’s heart is still pounding in his chest.

“Are you okay, Jack?” Cas asks in a low voice after he reenters the room. There’s still blood soaked into the sleeves of his trenchcoat, but his hands have been meticulously cleaned.

Jack throws the last bloody rag into the mop bucket and hefts it off the floor. “Yes. Thank you for being here, Cas.” He replies simply and honestly. “I was worried you weren’t hearing my prayers.”

Guilt twists Cas’ mouth for a moment. “I’m sorry, Jack. Michael has buried Dean deeper in his mind than we had anticipated. Any deeper, and I might not have been able to pull myself out in time.”

Jack doesn’t reply, certainly doesn’t want to admit that he was about to pluck at the delicate balance keeping his binal natures in check. Cas walks around the table, towards the Bevell machine. He taps a button and frowns as the screen pulls up a string of numbers. “It’s been nearly a day since we plugged Sam into the machine.”

That shocks Jack. He was exhausted, but figured that sleepless nights, near-death and actual-death experiences were catching up to him. For Sam to have been plugged into the machine for this long and apparently not have made any progress was more than disheartening. It was frightening.

“What are you going to do? Are you going back in?” Jack asks.

Cas watches Sam’s slow and steady breathing, how he doesn’t even twitch when Cas lays a hand on his shoulder. “No. I need to locate Garth. I glimpsed one of the Michael Monster’s minds. They weren’t sent here to rescue Michael initially. Michael left instructions to have them check the Bunker in the event he went missing. A contingency plan. I need to make sure that Garth is returned to a cell, so he doesn’t bring down the full force of Michael’s armies to the Bunker. From what you’ve described, it seems that even powered down, Michael can control his monsters if they’re within a certain range. For an all-powerful Archangel who claims to be leagues above us, it’s curious how he still plans for failure.”

“That’s the difference between us, Castiel. I plan for everything.”

Jack feels the bucket handle slip through his fingers. The plastic bottom strikes the ground, and soapy, bloody water spills out. The warm liquid soaks into his shoes and saturates the bottom of his jeans, but Jack doesn’t notice.

Michael is awake.

Michael’s penetrating gaze is focused on Cas, who meets the scrutiny without revealing a flicker of surprise. Sam’s position is unchanged – whatever reason Michael is out here again, Sam is still plugged in to Dean’s brain. Jack doesn’t know if that’s a good sign, or a worse sign.

“So you planned for me to slaughter your Monsters?” Cas says crisply, and Jack nearly shivers at the coolness in his tone. Jack might be theoretically more powerful than both angels in the room, but at times, the eons of their lifetimes are crushing. Jack’s hardly had two years of life, and just the very concept of such boundless existence coats the back of Jack’s throat like cinders from a by-gone era.

Michael doesn’t answer, but his smirk grows. Michael is completely locked down, doesn’t make a single attempt to fight the chains, and it unnerves Jack more than threats of violence.

“Why are you here?” He asks, glancing again at Sam’s still form.

Michael’s eyes flick to Jack’s, and he considers the Nephilim in his puddle of blood. “Let’s just say that Dean found a new toy, and I’m letting him tire himself out. We’ll check in on the Winchesters soon. I wouldn’t worry about them, I’m an accommodating host.”

Cas frowns, and Jack can see in his expression that he’s trying to puzzle the meaning out of Michael’s words.

Michael rolls his shoulders as if to stretch, and his eyes flit around the room without interest. His focus catches on the headless corpses visible in the darkness of the foyer, and he rolls his eyes. “I do miss an army of angels. A tad more sturdy. Wouldn’t you agree, Castiel?”

Cas remains silent, but his eyes narrow.

“How many times have you died, in this world? Our Father in this universe seems to be a little more _hands-on_ than in mine. I suppose God saw the vision of my new world, and trusted that I could bring it about without aid.” Now Cas twitches, and Michael smiles at the small reaction. “It’s amusing how one little change can throw a world into such disarray. One small word of consent or agreement. Mary Campbell refusing to save her husband in my world, and damning her soul for the same man in this one. It’s fascinating. It comes down to one word. _Yes._ Mary said yes, and the Winchester brothers were born. Dean said yes, and look where we are now.” Michael shakes his head, “I wish I knew which of the two universes follows the constant. Once I’ve purged this world, I aim to find out.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Michael.” Cas retorts sharply.

“Oh, yes, Castiel. I lost my train of thought, we were speaking about you, weren’t we? Tell me. Are the seraphim hardier than their angel brethren in this world? Because I must say…” A dangerous smile crosses his lips, bright with expectation and morbid intent. “I’ve never noticed much of a difference.”

When Jack looks back at this moment, after everything goes so very, very wrong, the part that he remembers clearest is that as he looks at Michael, he no longer sees Dean.

Cas never saw the angel blade coming. Jack didn’t even realize that Garth was in the Bunker until he heard the small choking gasp. And Jack never saw the blade slide through the meat of Cas’ back; he only sees the final moment as the steely tip of the blade exits Cas’ abdomen. Cas’ eyes glow white as the grace explodes from his body, to be claimed for eternity by The Empty. Ludicrously and cruelly so much sooner than he had expected.

In hindsight, Jack really didn’t think through what he did next.

Jack doesn’t know half of what it means to be a Nephilim. He didn’t have an idea before, and he certainly doesn’t now. Sometimes, it’s more of an instinct. Of knowing that there’s _something_ if he just reaches out for it. Even after his father ripped the grace from his center, Jack’s always felt the angel portion of him desperate to spread its wings and shed the human soul shackling it down. But Jack knows better, and knows that his real strength comes from the human side as much as the angel.

Time doesn’t slow, like they always say in those cheesy movies that Dean makes them watch. There’s no sudden burst of inspiration or internal debate or monologue. Jack feels his eyes warm as golden grace surges in their depths, and as Cas’ grace pours out in a blinding spray of light, Jack _reaches_. He knows Cas’ grace on a visceral level, he’s reached out before and awoken it through the Veil. From within The Empty. So – Jack doesn’t know much about what it means to be a Nephilim. But he knows that everything is easier with practice.

Jack instinctively _tugs_ and feels the grace collect and pool in a small coil, winding tighter and tighter in on itself. He grits his teeth as the expired grace resists its nature. It twists in his grasp, trying to sink into The Empty, but Jack only tightens his grip. He doesn’t notice as the life support, electricity and lights snap off in the Bunker as the circuit breakers all trip at once. He doesn’t notice when a vessel bursts in his nose and dribbles blood down his face.

When Jack feels Cas’ grace pull away, he pulls back harder. Jack is a Winchester at heart, and that means something far more than being the son of the devil. Winchesters never let family go without a fight.

In the space of a breath, something gives. Jack feels the grace give up its instinctive fight, and he pulls it into himself. It coils into that inner grace-soul chamber he’s only just beginning to understand. It pools with his own grace – silver seraphim grace mixing with his own, and Jack feels a sudden overwhelming surge of power explode inside of him. He gasps as his own fledging grace supercharges with Cas’, and it’s like someone poured liquid energy down his spine.

At that moment, the power trips back on, and it takes Jack a moment to remember how to restrain the power inside of him. All the bulbs in the light fixtures explode before Jack fully locks his – and Cas’ – grace down.

By the time the emergency lighting flickers on, Jack’s fallen to his knees, breathing ragged.

He hears the wet thump of a body hitting the floor. He looks up through the hair that’s in his face and sees that Cas has fallen on his front, face turned away from Jack. Garth stands over Cas, eyes glassy and empty, and blue light flickers in their depths. His hand is clenched tightly around the angel blade, which he still holds extended like he’s waiting for someone to impale themselves on it.

Far from the typical grandstanding that Jack would have expected, Michael is deadly quiet. Suspicion traces lines in his face, and he stares at the empty vessel crumpled on the ground. “Check him.” He orders, and Garth animates. The angel blade clatters to the floor as Garth bends over, and flips Cas’ body onto his back. The movements are slack and unforced. No matter if Jack’s plan actually saves Castiel, the vessel born as Jimmy Novak is empty as a cadaver.

Inhumanly still, Michael doesn’t take his eyes off Cas for a long while. Finally, he nods at Garth. Garth’s blank eyes flash bright as Michael reasserts his control, and he walks robotically to Michael’s side. Jack doesn’t – and can’t – say a word as Garth begins to unfasten the cursed chains restraining Michael. Jack hasn’t had to balance an overflow of grace with a soul for a while now, and he can feel his own grace hotly contest the addition. There’s the foreign flow of Cas’ grace twisting sluggishly in the mix, and Jack is afraid if he loses control for even a moment, he’ll absorb Cas’ grace and lose any chance of restoring him to his vessel.

The chains fall solidly to the floor around Michael’s chair. The Archangel stands carefully so as not to disrupt the placement of electrodes on his scalp. When Michael’s eyes drop to Sam’s unmoving form, Jack’s heart stutters and he hauls himself to his feet and nearly slips on the bloody mop water. Michael’s attention briefly lands on Jack, and with a twitch of fingers, Jack is sent flying. There’s a breathless second, before Jack collides painfully with a support column. He feels a sharp bit of metal dig into the flesh of his skull, and a small trickle of blood dribbles down the back of his neck. Then – a burst of warmth as his revitalized grace heals over the cut instantly and unconsciously. Jack struggles against the force pinning him.

“Let go of me.” He snaps, and his flash gold.

Michael still seems to be overcoming his suspicions and hardly spares Jack a glance. Now that the grace is settling in his system, Jack can feel that he’s merely adopted Castiel’s strength, and is nowhere near Michael’s level, or where his own abilities measured before his grace was ripped out. He fights against Michael’s will and doesn’t so much as move a finger.

Michael steps over Cas’ body and approaches Sam’s side. On the other side of the table, Garth wavers like a robot without a command, waiting for instruction. “Don’t touch him!” Jack yells, as Michael reaches out a casual hand to straighten Sam’s head. Sam doesn’t flinch out of Michael’s grasp, still synced with the electrodes connecting their minds. Michael turns his back to Jack, who unsuccessfully struggles to break free, and Jack loses sight of Sam. Michael could snap Sam’s neck in a heartbeat. He could stop Sam’s heart with a mere graze of fingers. Jack is going to be alone in a room full of corpses and watch Dean being carried off by a monster. Again.

There’s a quiet _snick_ and Jack hears the faint singing of grace as it’s summoned into physical existence. Michael shifts his position, and Jack can finally see around him as Michael extends his hand towards Sam. A bright point of grace dances on the Archangel’s finger, and Jack’s mind is blank as Michael runs the finger across Sam’s forehead. The bright silver instantly absorbs into Sam’s skin, leaving only a small smear of Dean’s blood behind. Sam’s eyes flash blue once under closed lids.

“What did you do to him?” Jack demands hotly, squirming against the column.

Michael turns around and gives Jack a supercilious wink. His hand comes to his temple and he yanks the electrodes off his forehead in one pull. There’s not even a small pink blemish marring his skin as he drops the wires disdainfully to the floor. Sam makes no movement, even as the physical connection is ripped apart.

“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ve only given Sam what he’s wanted all along. If he wants to be with Big Brother Dean, well then…” And before Jack can open his mouth, Michael’s fist comes up in the air before crashing down on Toni Bevell’s device. The shoddy metal work crumples like wet paper, and metal scraps scatter to the floor. Michael inspects his handiwork before extending his pointer finger and tipping the entire twisted machine off its cart. “Then Sam can stay with Dean until his body atrophies and he dies. It’s all about thinking creatively.” Michael meets Jack’s gaze and he taps a finger against the side of Dean’s head. “It’s about always taking what you’ve got and using everything that’s available. It’s a lesson, Jack. Always play the long game.” He approaches the column where Jack is pinned, and roughly kicks aside Cas’ body. “You want to be the caretaker of humanity? Fine, Jack. Try and keep Sam Winchester alive before he becomes completely brain dead. Or his body degenerates. Dealer’s choice. I’ll keep him nice and comfortable up here before his clock runs out.”

Michael clasps his hands before him and surveys the room. He sees the skewered empty vessel of Castiel, crumpled and broken in a pool of bloody mop water. He watches with calm green eyes as his nephew struggles to break free of invisible bonds, hate glowing gold in his eyes. He glimpses the unconscious form of Sam Winchester, slouched in his chair, sucked into a supernatural nightmare trying to rescue a brother that can’t be saved.

Michael smiles broadly. “‘ _And God looked upon all that He had made, and indeed, it was good._ ’” He recites, and with a snap of his fingers, Michael is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Garth is gone too, but that wouldn’t have been as snappy as a closing line.
> 
> (kinda spoilers below)
> 
> I wanted to say briefly that I really appreciate everyone's patience with me, and all the kind words and comments people have been sending my way. I'm very, very, very new to fic writing (and writing in general), and I'm still getting my legs under me, and it's very heartening to have such awesome people encouraging me along the way. That being said, I wanted to apologize because my "newness" to fic means that I'm not very good about tagging things. I added a tag today that's to the effect of, this is not going to be a fix-it fic. THAT BEING SAID, I don't plan on ending this fic on a lame or "bad" note (I hope). I've changed a lot about this fic here and there, but the ending for me has always been the same, and I've tried to keep the fic consistent with that. I did a lot of soul-searching (lol) yesterday where I considered trying to come up with a "fix-it-get-rid-of-Michael" ending, but in the end, I like my ending and I think it's the natural end of the fic the way I've set it up for 14 chapters now. And it's intended to be something that will maybe line up with what the show is doing. I apologize if that's something that I should have tagged from the beginning, and I hope you enjoy reading the fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you very much for reading, especially if you've made it this far. 14 chapters... omg. EDIT: uhh just to clarify, this fic isn't done yet. Someone's comment scared me a little lmao. There's probably like 2 full chapters and an epilogue left.


	15. Chapter 15

His hands feel cool and bloodless against the warm metal. Blood, rich and deep like a glass of claret, stains his fingers like a cherry varnish. Screams and whispered pleas all sound the same – he can’t remember the difference anymore. Hysteria. Suffering. It passes eventually. It takes so much more effort to _prolong_ it. He still hasn’t mastered it, there’s always more to learn, more to study, more to -

_Try again, Dean. Practice makes perfect. Don’t give me that look, Dean, come on… smile._

Dean forces a parody of a grin, feels his lips lifting up at the corners, baring his teeth. He doesn’t remember what it’s supposed to mean, doesn’t recall what emotion it’s supposed to mimic. It’s empty. And it’s easier that way.

               

Something rolls into Dean’s chin, and it rouses him from his dream. Without opening his eyes, he scrubs a hand down his face and his fingers bump the drained whiskey glass that must have rolled down his chest and smacked into his chin. He twists it in his fingers for a moment, and then tosses it aside. He hears the dampened thud as it hits the high-pile carpet and rolls away.

There’s a muttered curse from his right, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “Idjit…” And then the sound of a chair being shoved back on a wooden floor. Dean hears the footsteps thud towards him, and the grunt of an old, grouchy hunter bending on stiff knees to pick up the glass. “Don’t come cryin’ to me when you end up with glass in your feet.”

The glass comes down hard on Dean’s rib cage, and he grunts as he catches it before it rolls to the ground again. “Jesus, Bobby.” He mutters, and finally opens his eyes.

He’s lying on the couch in Bobby’s study, and his feet hang over the end of the old futon uncomfortably. He swings his legs over and moves into a sitting position, dragging an exhausted hand down the side of his face and resting his chin on his fist.

Bobby Singer stands over him, holding a chipped mug filled to the brim with the nuclear liquid he calls Bobby’s Brew.

“Thanks.” Dean mutters, and accepts the warm mug in his cold hands. He cups both hands on the mug and balances it on his knee, feeling the warmth spread to his core.

Bobby nods, and steps back around to his chair. He settles heavily, and throws back the dregs of his own mug. “You were dreaming somethin’ fierce. Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Bobby sighs, and clicks on the reading lamp in the corner of his desk. He looks paler and anxious as the warm orange bulb adds its meager light to the study. “Come on, Dean. You keep enough of that shit inside of you, it’ll kill you.”

Dean pulls a face, and stares at his murky reflection in the coffee. “C’mon, Bobby. You want to talk about hell when Sam is detoxing off demon juice in your weird ass sex dungeon – “

“Panic room.” Bobby interjects.

“I’ve heard it both ways.” Dean says with a flap of his hand. He takes a sip of the gritty coffee and feels it pool hotly in his empty stomach, which rumbles discontentedly.

Bobby raises an eye brow under the brim of his hat. “You wanna eat something?”

“What I _want_ is for everyone to get off my fucking back for two seconds.” Dean snaps, and some of the coffee sloshes over the side and burns his fingers. “Ah – shit.” He mutters, and wipes his fingers on his jeans. An awkward few seconds pass, with only the sound of an old clock ticking down the seconds like heartbeats. “Sorry, Bobby, I know I’m… I know I can be a dick sometimes, I just – “

Bobby waves a hand in the air, and leans back in his old chair. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Don’t forget I knew your old man. John would scowl at a sunny day just on principle.”

Dean fights it, but an image of his gruff father shaking a fist at the sun comes unbidden, and he huffs a laugh. “I miss that sonofabitch.” He admits. “I wonder what he would say about what we’re doing… to Sam.”

Bobby snorts. “I’ll tell you exactly what he’d do – he’d march down there with a shotgun and scare that boy straight.”

But Dean’s already slipping back into moodiness. “He tried to warn me, back then. Years ago. I didn’t realize that this was what he was trying to say. I thought it was over after Cold Oak.” Dean pauses, and remembers the feeling of shutting the heavy refurbished boiler door on his brother, remembers the betrayal that thudded down the line both ways. “Demon blood, Bobby. I don’t even know what to say.” Dean leans back heavily on the couch. “T-minus any-day-now to the apocalypse, and Sammy’s riding the pine.”

_Congrats, Sammy. You just bought yourself a benchwarmer seat to the apocalypse._

Dean nurses the mug of coffee until it cools, and he abandons it on a stack of books on one of Bobby’s bookshelves. “I’m gonna check on Sam.”

“You sure that’s – “

But Dean’s already gone, footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs leading down to the basement. _Stairway to Heaven, my ass_ , he thinks, and kicks a box of Bobby’s junk out his way as he approaches the salted iron doors. He strains to hear any noise coming from inside the room, but Bobby’s stomping around upstairs, and the noise drowns out anything that Dean could hear from the panic room.

He pauses for a moment, hand hovering inches from the door’s latch. He struggles with the urge to throw open the door, let his brother out. After all the horrors that Dean committed in hell, can he really cross his arms and lecture his brother about how some lines aren’t meant to be crossed?

But deep down – Dean knows where his soul is going, and it isn’t in an upward direction. But maybe… maybe there’s still hope for Sam. Maybe he can still redeem his brother, before he goes too far.

Dean’s hand rises from the latch to the unopened grate. Bobby abruptly ceases whatever Irish jig he was stomping around upstairs with, and the house slips into a pervading silence. Dean listens intently, and swears that he can hear voices from inside the panic room. With a sinking feeling, Dean finally slides the rusty metal grate aside, and peers into the room.

Sam stands in the center of the room, facing the side. His eyes are wide as his attention snaps to Dean.

“Are you talking to yourself, Sammy?” Dean asks, and he tries to make it light, but with that wild look in his brother’s eyes, it comes out like an accusation. Dean leans closer to the slit and confirms that the room is empty. Of course it is. No way would Ruby be able to make it in here without scratching off a few layers.

Sam’s eyes narrow with confusion, and he looks back to the side of the panic room to a blank patch of wall. “I… uh… no, I…” Sam shakes his head like he’s rebooting, and crosses the room to the grate in three swift strides. Dean flinches a step back. “Dean, listen to me, you need to let me out. This isn’t real, this is all just a trick. Michael, he – he killed Cas, and we need to get – “

“Jesus, Sam. Do you even hear yourself? Don’t you see how far off the reservation you’ve gone? Cas is – we just saw Cas a few hours ago. He’s fine. A little nuttier than usual, but he should literally be that last fuckin’ thing on your list of crazy right now, Sam. Numbers one through one goddamn hundred should be getting clean - ”

“Dean, stop. Just… listen, I’m not on demon blood. I haven’t touched the stuff in _years._ This is just Michael trying to separate us, make you think I’m… think I’m crazy or something.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know who Michael is, Sammy, but you’re doing a fan-freaking-tastic job of sounding crazy all on your lonesome. You’re not coming out of there until you dry out.”

Sam’s head jerks in exasperation, and he takes a step back. His head falls back as he stares up at the fan whirling slowly in the ceiling. Flashes of light slice past Sam’s face as the fan blades block the light. Finally, he looks back at Dean. “Look at me. Dean, seriously, just _look_ – do I look like I’m hopped up on demon blood? This is a trap. Michael’s trying to spin us around fighting each other, instead of focusing on getting out of here.”

Dean stops listening. He can’t listen to the lies dropping off Sam’s tongue like it’s got nothing better to do. Dean doesn’t even know when Sam started drinking demon blood, and how far back the lies stretched. The sneaking out with Ruby, the bullshit stories. And later, when they were fighting the Four Horsemen, and Famine got Sam all stirred up with the cravings all over again –

The beat of pain sparks in Dean’s head, and his hand comes up to rub at his forehead. Four Horsemen? Famine? Dean grinds a fist against his eyes as they pulse painfully in his skull. Maybe he needs to eat after all. All that booze and coffee can’t be good on an empty stomach.

There’s a dull roar in his ears, like wind smashing through distant trees, but Sam’s voice rises above the din. “I know you can push through, Dean, you just need to remember, and we – “

Dean opens his eyes and sees Sam. His brother, desperately pleading with him through the grate. From the demon-proof panic room that’s become their literal last resort to getting Sam clean. There’s a sick desperation in Sam’s eyes and it… it breaks something inside Dean. It really does.

Sam continues to babble nonsense at Dean as he slides the grate shut. The door instantly mutes Sam’s raised voice into a quiet whisper. Dean’s hand rests on the door for a moment, and he listens as Sam shouts through the door. Finally, he raps a knuckle on the iron and turns his back.

When he clears the landing, Bobby’s waiting. His chin jerks downstairs, and he asks “What was he going on about?”

Dean sighs. “I don’t even know, Bobby. Usual strung out nonsense. Maybe we should get him a TV in there. With a VCR player. Think he was yelling about Nakatomi Plaza. Die Hard.”

Dean meets Bobby’s silent gaze, and swears he sees Bobby’s eyes reflect a flash of blue light, like a mirror catching high beams. “Well.” The old hunter grumbles. “Guess there’s nothing to do but wait it out.”

“How long is this gonna go on?”

Bobby throws a withering glance over his shoulder as he turns and walks towards his small kitchen. “Here, let me look it up in my demon-detox manual.” He calls back as Dean follows him into the kitchen. Bobby settles at the table, and runs his fingers over the spines of a stack of books. “Oh wait. No one ever _wrote_ one. No telling how long it’ll take. Hell, or if Sam will even live through it.”

               

The thud of the grate sliding shut echoes in Bobby’s panic room.

“Dean!” He yells as loud as he can, aware that none of his words will carry through the thick iron walls. “You need to remember! _Hitomi Plaza!_ ”

But if Dean’s still on the other side of the door, he’s past hearing. Sam kicks the iron wall, and snarls a curse when pain rings up his leg. He storms to the center of the room and throws himself so forcefully on the cot that it skids backwards a few inches.

“And suddenly you accept that Cas is dead? Talking out of both sides of your mouth, Sammy.” And Michael is back, leaning against the wall casual-as-you-please wearing the visage of Sam’s younger self. Sam shuts his eyes for a moment. At least it’s not Alistair, like the first time.

“How do you even know about the hallucinations I had?” Sam has to ask. “I thought you couldn’t see my memories.”

Michael’s small shoulders shrug, and the eons behind the child’s eyes immediately betray Michael’s presence. “I can’t. Not like I can with Dean, but he and I have something of a _special_ relationship. I suppose something about this room just bubbles up old memories to the surface for you. It’s easy to read when you’re drowning in it.” A small smile creeps on his younger self’s face.

Michael takes a slow turn about the room, inspecting the iron sides and the devil’s trap. “Drinking the blood of demons, Sam. Tsk.” He clicks his tongue, and rubs a hand against the rough walls.

“Last I checked, weren’t you the guy shoving archangel grace down every monster throat you could find?” Sam snaps.

Michael hardly spares Sam an exasperated look. “I don’t expect you to understand my mission, Sam. Don’t expect me to understand _you._ ”

“If you’ve really escaped the Bunker,” Sam begins. He avoids mentioning the if/then possibility of Cas’ death, “then why am I still in Dean’s head? Pretty sure Bevell’s device doesn’t have wifi.”

Michael turns to face Sam, and the small smile returns. With each step he sheds the mask of younger Sam, and by the time he’s in front of Sam, he stands tall in the visage of Mary Winchester, bloody dress and long hair fresh off a bedroom ceiling. Sam clamps down the shudder that tries to shake loose. “I was fairly sure I’d already demonstrated the possibilities behind a small dose of archangel grace. Have you always needed this much hand-holding?” And his mother’s voice is soft in the room. “You’ll stay here… with Dean, with me… until,” the nightdress-covered shoulders raise in a casual shrug, “well, until you die. It could be brain trauma or your body could degenerate before we reach that point. I’m guessing you’ll be brain dead long before your body atrophies.”

“Bullshit.”

Michael tilts Mary’s head towards a bony shoulder. Sam can smell the iron of blood soaked in cloth and it turns his stomach. “Believe me, don’t believe me. Pretty soon, it won’t matter.”

There’s the flap of wings, a shadow on the wall, and Michael is gone.

 

“Dean.”

Dean blinks and sees there’s a full plate of food stacked in front of him. He didn’t even realize Bobby was cooking. “What?” He picks up a fork and spears a length of greasy sausage.

Bobby leans back against his grimy stove and watches Dean mechanically shovel food into his mouth. “We gotta talk about next steps here.”

“Jesus, Bobby. This again?” Dean throws the fork down on the table, and shoves his chair back. “We’re not springing Sam so he can take on Lucifer with a belly full of blood. Stop bringing it up.”

Bobby gives Dean a weird look. “What fool idea are you going on about? Lucifer? We’re talking about the apocalypse. The seals. I ain’t got any intention of letting Sam out of the panic room.”

Dean feels a hollowness under his ribs. He takes a step back from Bobby, unsure. Bobby’s face is open, slathered with the same waxy confusion that’s surely Dean’s expression. Why does Dean keep remembering conversations that didn’t happen?

_Well, I don’t like this any more than you do, but… Sam can kill demons. He’s got a shot of stopping Armageddon._

_So, what, sacrifice Sam’s life, his soul, for the greater good?_

Dean feels a small burst of nausea in his gut. He sees Bobby – sees him standing right in front of him – but behind him, he sees another Bobby. Older. Tired. Dead. He sees a hunter’s funeral, can feel the heat of a pyre burning the remains of the man that stands, alive and strong, in front of him.

Dean’s vision slides sideways, and his right leg buckles underneath him. He hits his head on the side of the door frame _hard_ and his vision flashes white for a moment. His shoulder bangs on the ground as the rest of him tumbles to the floor, and his whole mind is wiped blank. He looks around and doesn’t recognize anything, doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know the man leaning over him. He sees the reflection of a man in the oven door, and doesn’t recognize the green eyes set in a pale face that blink back at him.

“ _Balls._ ”

And then, like he was scooped out of his body and dropped back in, Dean clicks back into place. He pushes aside Bobby’s arm as the man tries to pull him to his feet. “ ’m fine.” He gasps, and scrambles to his feet. His head is ringing from his collision with the door frame, and he almost tilts back over as he straightens. “I just… I’m gonna clear my head.” Dean hears himself say from a distance, and he isn’t sure how his legs figure out how to carry him out the front door.

               

Sam feels a migraine coming on, and it’s the cherry on the cake as far as he's concerned.

He ignores the cot, and leans right up against the door. He’s sure that Michael isn’t going to follow the real script, and let Cas break Sam out. So Sam has to wait patiently for his brother to finally tear the wall down. Again.

Sam shuts his eyes, and feels the slight breeze pass over his face as the fan whirls slowly in the ceiling.

Demon blood. The seals. Hell. He hadn’t thought about any of this in years. In their lives, they don’t have time to look back, only press forward. Throw themselves at the new problem.

The migraine worsens, and it feels… less like a headache, and more like… pressure. Like his brain is growing in his skull and is going to pop. Sam feels the coolness of the door at his back, and wonders how long he’s been in Dean’s head. Time works different in the mind, he’s learned that by now. But if Michael isn’t bluffing, Sam’s real body is going to wither away before he gets any closer to putting a stop to Michael and his armies.

_Sam._

Sam’s eyes slam open. He jumps to his feet and, ignoring the crushing sensation in his brain, he backs away from the door.

“Dean?” He calls loudly, but the grate doesn’t slide open, and there’s no sound of anyone outside the door.

_Sam, you – I… there’s – Sam, can you hear –_

It takes a second for the voice to clear in Sam’s head. “Cas?”

               

“Cas!”

Michael’s hold over Jack disappears the moment he does, and Jack crashes painfully to his knees. His left hand lands in the remnants of broken glass from a lightbulb, and he grimaces as he feels the thin glass slice into his palm. By the time he’s crawled the few feet to Castiel’s side, his replenished grace has already healed over the cut, and only a small smear of blood on the floor give any indication that Jack is mortal at all.

Cas’ body lies on its back in a puddle of spilled mop water. Already, bloody water has soaked thickly in parts of his trenchcoat, giving Cas’ body a more mutilated impression than the actual killing blow. His cheek rests in a small pool of the liquid, and when Jack straightens his face, the bloody water stains like bruised flesh.

Jack pulls aside a flap of the trenchcoat, and exposes the bloodied suit and ripped white shirt underneath. The actual exit wound is small, all the damage on the other side and internal.

His heart thuds in his chest as his hands skim over Cas’ injury. He isn’t sure how to do this. This is a vessel, and it isn’t. Jimmy Novak is gone, has been for years, but his form remains in this body that’s been built and rebuilt over years.

Jack closes his eyes, and feels the small pocket of Cas’ grace nestled against his human soul, like a parasite burrowing for warmth. Slick against the surface like oil against water. Jack reaches gingerly inside the space, and detaches his own grace from Cas, making especially sure that he doesn’t absorb any more of Cas’ power into his own. Already he can feel his body repairing itself from small bruises, minor cuts, exhaustion. He feels his body pulling energy from Cas’ slowly dimming light, and focuses all the harder.

Finally, he gathers the remains of Cas’ grace and holds it apart from the rest of him. His own grace is tapped out. There’s room for separation.

Jack’s fingers close around the angel blade that Garth left behind. It shakes in his grip as he holds it in front of his face. Cas’ blood still coats the shining silver, and Jack feels bile rise in his throat. He stares at the sharp tip for a moment, before he brings it down to the palm. He feels the blade slice into the meat of his hand, and feels the vibration in his chest more than he hears the groan of pain that escapes.

Radiant silver light shimmers in his palm, and Jack quickly focuses on restraining the healing process before his palm knits itself back together. The silver light flickers once, like it’s fighting the exposure to the physical world. Jack grits his teeth, and slams his palm Cas’ chest. A force nearly repels his hand, but he pushes through, holds his hand tight against the mortal wound in Cas’ chest.

Nothing happens, and Jack feels grace begin to leak around the edges of his fingers, struggling to escape and dissipate into the air.

“Come on, Cas…” Jack hears himself say. His hand begins to shake from the pressure, and blood from the cut begins to seep into Cas’ shirt. “Come on…”

It’s not working. He isn’t strong enough to force the grace to reanimate the vessel, he doesn’t know how. He pictures the grace disappearing like vapor into the air, dragged down to The Empty. After all he’s done, he’s going to lose Cas. He’s going to lose Sam. He’s going to lose Dean.

The shock of loss shudders deep in his core. Jack feels more grace pour through him, and it takes every ounce of his self-control to hold it together.

And then, he feels something give. Golden Nephilim grace slams into Seraphim silver, and forcibly shoves the grace into the empty vessel. Jack watches, distressed, as he feels Cas’ grace expelled from his system. The light dims from his hand until it’s nothing but a bloody palm on a bloody corpse.

“Cas?” He asks, and doesn’t dare to lift his palm. “Castiel!”

Nothing.

A gloomy silence spreads over Bunker. Sam’s body sags in the chair, unknowing of the scene playing out feet away. Jack feels a strong emotion settle heavily on his shoulders, bowing under its weight.

And then, Jack is blind.

Light slams into his retinas and the discordant chorale of Enochian tears at his ear drums. His hand remains flatly pressed to Cas’ chest, and he can feel the warmth of skin knitting back together. The light fades, and the sound dies, and the lack of sensation leaves Jack feeling empty. He feels his palm slide off Cas’ body as he begins to tilt.

 A strong grip arrests his fall.

“Cas?” He tries to say as the walls close in.

He hears the deep grumble of a response, but he’s too tired to remember how to piece together words.

 

Cas lifts the unconscious Nephilim off the floor, and lays him gingerly on the table. He’s careful to avoid any shattered glass, and Jack’s blanched face rolls towards Sam as Cas straightens.

He watches the boy’s face for a moment, comforting himself that Jack is merely exhausted, and not dying. Cas feels the thready pulse of grace in his own vessel, and knows that some of his own power has gone into rejuvenating Jack’s body, and he could never be grieved about that.

Michael is gone. He felt the lack of Archangel presence before he opened his eyes and caught Jack as his unconscious form dropped.

Michael is gone. Dean is lost.

Cas pulls the dirty trenchcoat off himself and lays it over Jack, before he skirts carefully around the abandoned cursed chains left on the ground. No reason to injure himself in haste.

Cas doesn’t remember anything after the angel blade slid wetly between his ribs. But there’s a story in the damage that Michael left behind. Sam slumps to the side, electrodes falling across his face. Toni Bevell’s machine is smashed beyond repair on the ground. There’s the flicker of movement beneath Sam’s eyelids, and Cas tries to comfort himself that Sam isn’t dead. But, Michael has vanished, no longer connected to the destroyed machine, and Sam shouldn’t be connected to Dean’s mind anymore.

Cas reaches out a cautious hand, and grazes Sam’s forehead. At the slightest brush of contact, Sam’s eyes flash with bright archangel grace before settling back to darkness. There’s no other reaction, no sign of Sam stirring or rousing himself from sleep.

Cas grimaces to himself, pulling together the missing pieces. He closes his eyes, and puts his other hand on Sam’s forehead. He feels the steady beat of a pulse, but even with his limited understanding of archangel abilities, he can detect abnormal brain activity.

Michael has reached into Sam’s mind and linked the brothers’ minds together, bonding them with blood and grace. If Cas can’t separate the two, Sam will die. For good.

 

“Cas? Is that you?”

_Sam. Can you hear me?_

Sam nearly drops to the floor in relief. “Jesus, Cas, it’s good to hear from you. Michael said that he –“

_Michael didn’t lie. Garth surprised us in the Bunker and killed me with an angel blade._

“But – “

_Jack saved my life by transferring my expiring grace into himself. He is fine. But we don’t have time to worry about me, we need to get you out of Dean’s mind._

“Michael said that he escaped the Bunker, but how can I still be inside Dean’s mind? Toni’s machine needs physical contact to create a connection.”

_Michael destroyed Bevell’s machine before departing. I believe he forged a connection with you using Enochian magic that’s been lost for eons. I have no idea how to disrupt the connection. Right now, the burden of maintaining the connection is solely on your brain, and it’s putting an undue amount of stress on your brain activity. If you remain inside Dean’s mind much longer, you’ll suffer irreversible brain damage._

Sam swallows, and stumbles backwards until his knees hit the edge of the cot.

Michael wasn’t lying. He escaped the Bunker, mortally injuring Cas along the way. He was probably back in Kansas City by now, laying waste to a population of hundreds of thousands. Sam feels himself shake his head, and flinches at the resulting spike of pain.

_Sam?_

“Cas, I can’t abandon Dean.”

_If we don’t break the connection, you’ll abandon Dean a little more permanently. We need to find a way to –_

Sam tries to focus on Cas, but there’s a roaring in his ears. The dim lighting in the panic room ratchets up to a thousand, and Sam claps a hand to his eyes as the pain rips through his brain like a bullet through tissue paper.

_Sam!_

But Sam is past the point of responding. He feels like his head has disintegrated into pulp and nerve endings. His mouth opens and he feels gibberish tumble out, but he’s blind and deaf and dumb.

And then he’s nothing but silence.

               

His hands feel cool and bloodless against the warm metal.

But it’s not hell this time, it isn’t hell. Dean’s hand clenches around the rusty metal of a junk car, and his fingers come away orange and gritty. He balances his palms on his knees and gulps in the fresh evening air. This is Bobby’s yard. He’s at Bobby’s. Sam is here, Bobby is here. When Dean turns around, Castiel will be there, all brusqueness and desolation.

_Get to the reason you really called me. It’s about Sam, right?_

_Can he do it? Kill Lilith, stop the apocalypse?_

And then the son of a bitch will go behind Dean’s back and release Sam anyway. After all the pledges and oaths that Dean throws at him about _accepting his role_ , working with the angels. Cas still wants to save Dean at the world’s expense.

 _I rebelled for_ this _? So that you could_ surrender _to them?_

Dean feels his knees sink into the cool mud of the junkyard. His head is flickering with images he doesn’t recognize, memories he doesn’t remember. Things that haven’t happened yet. He pushes past the disjointed mess and tangled threads of memory. He pushes it all aside, and reaches for the glowing box in the center. A blankness carved out in the storm. He clings to it, like a rock overhanging a waterfall, ready to plunge him a thousand feet off the edge.

The block crumbles to ash in his grasp, and a decade of memories slam into his head like a bludgeon. Demons, leviathan, Purgatory, Trials, The Darkness, God, Lucifer, Nephilim, Michael, _Hitomi Plaza._

Dean breaks the surface like a diver escaping explosive decompression.

He’s panting on his knees in Bobby’s scrapyard, a stretch of land that’s long been reduced to cinders. Dean comes back to himself and wipes liquid off his face, unsure if it’s sweat or blood.

_Sam._

The dirt churns under Dean’s feet as he breaks into a run. Bobby is nowhere to be seen as Dean throws open the front door. The house feels quiet and still, like the pause between breaths, and Dean nearly launches himself down the stairs into the basement. He doesn’t bother with the grate as he wrenches the door aside and stumbles into the panic room.

His eyes fight to adjust to the dim lighting, but the first thing he sees is Sam’s still form collapsed on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goood so much happens in this chapter. Will I finish by tomorrow???? Ugh. We'll see.
> 
> EDIT: Jesus H. Christ. If anyone finds typos, please don't hesitate to make fun of me in the comments and let me know. Don't understand how I can read something a billion times and find a new typo every time.


	16. Chapter 16

Jack wakes feeling better than he’s felt for months. He feels well-rested. Relaxed, even, like a coolness sweeping aside the heavy curtain of fever.

Jack’s eyes open, and warm light sluices pleasantly over his face. Jack blinks peaceably, and by the time his brain has processed the words _emergency lighting_ , he’s already fisted his hand into the dirty blanket – trenchcoat, Cas’ trenchcoat – and wrenched it off the side of the table. He swings his legs over the ledge, banging his ankle painfully against the solid wood of a chair.

Pain radiates up his calf, but he’s already dropped off the table, is looking for… making sure that…

“Castiel!” Jack cries, when he catches sight of the angel in the dim lighting.

Cas looks exhausted. And definitely not healthy. But he’s alive, and not dead in a puddle of mop water. Relief saturates Jack’s chest so intensely that you could wring him out twice and he’d still be dripping.

Without the trenchcoat, Cas seems taller. But Jack sees the bruised eyes and the sallow skin, and it’s like he’s looking at a corpse on a floor again. He crosses around the table, and can’t bring himself to hug Cas, can’t let him leave his sight for that long. He grips Cas’ forearm to reassure himself. The angel offers him a harried smile and says “Thank you, Jack. That’s twice you’ve saved me.”

Jack swallows back a strong emotion. What can he even say? It’s what family does.

“How is Sam?” He asks instead, and he seeks out the younger Winchester.

Cas has laid Sam out on the floor, a salvaged pillow tucked under his head. His eyes move frantically under closed lids, and his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Michael, he…” Jack tries to remember. Everything leading up to Cas’ death is a little foggy, out of reach. “He did something… he cut his finger and there was grace and blood, I think. He said he locked Sam away…”

Cas guides Jack a step away from Sam. He speaks in a low voice, as if Sam were conscious and listening, “Michael used an ancient Enochian rite that even I don’t fully comprehend.” Cas repeats what he told Sam, that the burden of maintaining the connection was now entirely linked to Sam’s brain, and how eventually it would overload his system, and Sam would suffer from incurable brain damage, if not outright death.

Jack’s hands clench behind his back, and he feels tiny crescents of pain as his nails dig in. “How much time does he have?” At the moment, it just seems as if Sam is struggling against a nightmare.

“Hard to say. If Sam were anyone else, the stress on his brain would have killed him instantly. Sam and Dean are not average on any scale. Sam’s been possessed and healed from the inside, and that leaves behind a certain fortitude. Much like how Dean was able to recover from Michael’s possession due to the changes in his body left behind from the Mark of Cain.”

“So how can we break the connection?”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Jack turns to face him. The angel is watching him with sad, sunken eyes. “I don’t know.”

 

“Sam!” Dean slides on bruised knees to his brother’s side.

Sam is cold under his hands as he flips him onto his back. Whatever caused Sam to collapse in the panic room already seems to be leaving Sam’s system, and he’s blinking confusedly at the ceiling.

“Dean?” He asks, tongue thick in his mouth.

“Jesus, Sam. What happened? You miss the bed?” He asks, and only half of his panic bleeds through. He helps Sam shakily to his feet, guiding him to the cot. Sam sinks heavily in in the thin mattress, and squints around the room like he doesn’t recognize it.

“Sam.” Dean repeats, and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “You with me?”

“Yeah, I…” Sam starts, and rubs his face with both hands. “Cas was talking to me.”

“Cas? Like our-Cas or robot-Cas?” Dean asks, and then the last few minutes of their previous conversation begin to settle. “Fuck – is he… you said that Michael – “

“Cas is fine. He said Jack saved him… somehow. Little fuzzy on the details. But Michael escaped.”

Like a punch to the gut, Dean feels the air leave his lungs in a painful exhale. The blood drains from his face, and his hand slides off Sam’s shoulder. Michael is gone. Michael escaped. He could be anywhere, doing anything – and he’s dragging Dean along for the ride.

“If he escaped, then how are you still here?” Dean asks, and there’s bitterness of suspicion in his tone before he even suspects it himself. If Michael’s escaped the Bunker, Sam’s presence could be another trick… a way to keep Dean chasing his own exhaust trail instead of resisting Michael.

Sam is still looking down at his hands, doesn’t seem to notice the doubt creeping into Dean. “Cas said something about an Enochian spell.”

“An Enochian spell.” Dean repeats. “This have anything to do with me finding you laid out like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches. “You’ve never had a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.”

“Sam.”

Sam finally meets Dean’s gaze, and his hazel eyes are open and earnest. “I’m fine, Dean.”

_Liar._

“Let’s figure out a plan to stop Michael. We’ll worry about the spell later.”

_Liar._

Dean stares down at his brother on the cot. The silence stretches on, and Dean becomes more aware of the stream of memories pouring through his brain like water through a sieve. Its distracting, if he focuses on it. He feels the ordering and reordering of memories dropping into the correct places like a lone librarian picking books off the floor after an earthquake. He watches his brother, and his vision skips. Suddenly, it’s a young Sam, tousled hair and baby fat. Then it’s demon blood Sam, wide eyed and strung out. He blinks, and it’s _his_ Sam again, exhausted and pasty.

“Something isn’t right, Sam.” He hears himself say, and its like he’s speaking underwater, syrupy and thick. “You’re not telling me something.”

“You know everything I know, Dean.” He answers vaguely, and looks around the panic room, as if he forgot they were here. His eyes track up to the devil’s trap on the ceiling, and a small shudder passes through his bulky frame. “Can we get out of here? This place…” Sam doesn’t finish the thought, and pulls himself to his feet shakily. He meets Dean’s gaze and sees the doubt, “Dean, come on. I’m fine. I’m the last person we should be worried about right now.”

_Liar._

               

They climb the stairs out of Bobby’s basement. There’s no sign of the grizzled hunter, and Sam is relieved. He’s had enough shocking reunions without seeing their dead sometimes-father dumping the last of a bottle of Gilbert Hadrian Black whiskey into a mug, or pulling a corded phone around the corner, pretending to be this police chief or that FBI supervisor. Sam catches Dean’s glances around corners, and knows he’s thinking the same thing.

“I hope Jack didn’t over do it.” Sam admits quietly, as they push through the storm door to the front porch.

“Jack?”

Sam’s head turns mechanically and he halts mid-step. His mouth opens to ask Dean _what do you mean, Jack_ but the words stick in his throat. Like if he gives voice to the fears, they become real.

Dean’s looking back at him as if Sam’s the one who asked a question, and Dean’s figuring out how to answer. A beat passes, and the fog clears from behind Dean’s eyes. “Jack. Uh, yeah, Jack. I wouldn’t worry, Cas would’ve said if something was wrong. Kid’s a Nephilim, for Christ’s sake, Sammy, he popped those last couple of vamps like zits a few days ago.”

Sam is frozen. He doesn’t understand a word dropping out of Dean’s mouth. Dean remembers Sam’s and Cas’ conversation about Jack saving Cas from death, but he doesn’t remember that Jack doesn’t have his powers? Dean stares back at Sam steadily, like Sam is the crazy one.

“Let’s check the Impala. Maybe we have some angel-killing junk.” Dean says, and steps around Sam to take the stairs. The Impala gleams a few yards away in the moonlight. Watching Dean walk towards the Impala is like a moment out of time. It could be a memory of anything, from any time in their lives.

Sam swallows past a dry throat, and follows his brother to their car. Dean has already wrenched the trunk up and is tearing through their small armory like it’s the world’s most dangerous cutlery drawer.

“Where’s the… holy oil…” he mutters, hissing when he nicks himself on a loose silver blade. “Mother fucker…” he curses, and then slaps both hands on the upraised trunk in defeat.

Sam feels a point of pain in the middle of his forehead, and hopes that Dean didn’t catch his flinch of pain. “We didn’t have any back then.” Sam remembers. “We didn’t have any until we needed to trap Raphael.”

Dean groans. “God, we are so full up the ass with Archangels these days.” He snaps, and slams the lid of the trunk down. “Uh, Sam? You okay?”

Sam’s eyes are pinched shut and his hand lies flat on the Impala’s side as if to catch himself from pitching over. He opens his eyes at Dean’s words, wants to reassure Dean, make up some excuse. His eyes open to absolute pitch darkness and his heart skips a beat, fearing he’s gone blind. Then, as if someone flips a dimmer switch, light explodes in his eyes. Every small reflection of the moon on a mirrored surface amplifies like a firework exploding inches away.

Dean’s worried countenance fills Sam’s vision, and Sam can hardly see him through the light reflecting off his face. Dean’s mouth opens in slow-motion, and incomprehensible gibberish tumbles out. The pitch rises from inaudible whispers to the tumult of alarm klaxons and Sam slaps his hands to his head to cover his ears. To block out the sensation that’s overloading his brain.

It feels like someone’s run cables through his head and connected it to a thousand audio and visual sensory systems. Sam’s hands press down harder on his skull, as if to keep the entire thing from cracking open like an egg and dumping Sam Winchester out like a libation.

For a dizzying second, Sam sees himself from Dean’s perspective, bent over and sucking air in through resisting lungs. He can see himself from the sky, from the ground below. It’s as if every sensation that Michael’s teased from Dean’s brain to create this small pocket of a memory is being routed through Sam’s head, sucking up voltage and bonding to Sam’s brain chemistry like mucilage.

The sensations stutter. A blessed coolness slips into his limbs, and Sam sinks thankfully into unconsciousness.

 

Dean eases Sam’s descent onto the ground. Anguish is smoothed from his face and the spasms leave his limbs, until Sam’s muscles have relaxed and loosened in Dean’s grip. Dean maneuvers his brother around until he’s sitting back against the Impala, head angled to the side with a curtain of hair hiding his closed eyes. There’s a youthfulness to Sam’s face when he sleeps, but Dean takes no comfort in Sam’s apparent recovery.

He calls out his brother’s name a few times, and a few shoulder shakes are thrown in for good measure. But Sam remains ashen and insubstantial under the moonlight.

There’s a flap of wings exchanged for footsteps in wet earth. “Hello, Dean.” Bobby Singer drawls. Dean’s fists tighten into Sam’s shirt. When he turns his head, he only catches the last vestiges of the surly hunter as Michael slips back into his choice guise as Dean. The immaculate suit seems alien in the dirt of a scrapyard.

Michael beams down at him.

“Let’s chat.”

 

Sam’s body relaxes woodenly against the floor, and Cas releases his grip holding Sam on his side. Sam flops sideways onto his back. His chest rises and falls agitatedly, but there is no sign of stirring on his clammy face.

“That’s two seizures back to back, Cas.” Jack says. He twists the rag he was wiping Sam’s forehead with before the convulsions started. They’d tried an IV drip a little earlier, but Sam’s first seizure ripped the needle from the taped patch, and Cas decided to skip the course of drugs for the moment. Other than the damage he’s usually able to heal through his grace, his knowledge of practical triage medical treatments is sorely lacking. Jack had called the Apocalypse Universe hunter Monica, who was an ER nurse in a past life, and she’d walked them through first steps.

Of course, there wasn’t exactly a manual for treating ancient Enochian mind spells.

Cas clinically moves the sweaty hair from Sam’s forehead, and straightens from his crouch. Like so many other times dealing with the perils befalling the Winchesters, he’s at a loss. He’s a powerful, angelic being – a Seraph of the highest order, raised by God himself. And Sam Winchester is dying in stages at their feet.

“We have to do something.” Jack insists for the fourth time. “Maybe I can – “

“Jack.” Cas interrupts, and waits until Jack’s anguished eyes have met his. “Even with our powers combined, we cannot break this connection. This is ancient sortilege, predating even the earliest of human writings and spellwork.”

Jack’s countenance is wretched as he turns back to Sam. “There has to be something we can do.”

Cas leans over, and places what he hopes is a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder. “We can have faith in the Winchesters. Sam and Dean will figure something out.”

               

Small drumbeats of water splash on Sam’s face, and his eyes stir beneath their lids.

He comes to slowly, and waits for the slow bleed of pain to seep into his bones, into his head. Sam waits, rooted in place, but no ache burns through his senses, and no agony strains the tight band of his mind.

He blinks his eyes open groggily, and rubs the blur from his vision with the heel of his palm. The air is soggy with rain, and Sam can hear the light patter of precipitation splashing against open water. Dean leans over the railing, watching the lights illuminate the far shore. He faces away from Sam, a broad back cricked with resignation.

Sam pulls himself up slowly, waiting for the switch to flip and electrocute his senses, but his movements are smooth and easy.

Dean doesn’t startle when Sam joins him against the railing. There’s a moment of silence, of easy contentment, as the pair stares out over the dark waters. A small lighthouse drags a beam of light over them before flipping away, heading out over choppy waves.

Sam looks around, tries to remember why this place looks so familiar.

“Somerset, Pennsylvania.” Dean answers the unasked question. His eyes bounce from the water and meet Sam’s, and Sam’s heart drops as he senses something wrong is about to happen. “It’s the docks where we split in ’14.” Dean’s hands drum twice against the wooden railing of the lengthy dock. “Guess Michael has a sense of irony. Who knew?”

Sam takes another look around, as the setting finds its place in his memories. It was the day that he’d thrown Gadreel from his mind, after the angel left so much death and blood behind on his hands. It’s the dock where Sam saw his brother for the last time without the Mark of Cain. It was a tipping point of their relationship, years in the making.

_Come on, man, can’t you see? I’m… I’m poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed… or worse._

It’s the day when Sam looked his brother in the eyes and told him to leave.

_Go. I’m not going to stop you. But don’t go thinking that’s the problem. Because it’s not._

Sam blinks regrets and rain water from his eyes. “You remember everything?”

Dean turns back to the water. “Yep.” He says, popping the p. “Got the whole mess rolling around upstairs. Hitomi Plaza. Michael. Real funhouse we’ve been through.”

Sam’s limbs feel heavy with dread. “Why does it sound like you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear, Dean?”

Dean’s fingers clench the wet, splintery wood. He avoids Sam’s gaze, and the lighthouse beam slices through his vision. By the time he looks back at Sam, his jaw is set resolutely. “You’re going home, Sam.”

“Home – what does that even mean, _home_?”

“It means… you’re getting out of here. And I’m not going with you.”

 

Bobby’s scrapyard. Michael’s presence is like a suffocation at his back.

“Sticking with those duds, huh?” Dean gibes, but he angles his body to put himself between Sam and Michael.

Amusement ghosts Michael’s face when he sees the defensive posture. It’s a look that asks, _honestly, Dean?_

Dean scowls at the archangel bearing down on them. “What have you done to him?”

Michael takes a few steps around Dean to study Sam’s limp form against the Impala, mud already streaking Sam’s clothes and skin. “He didn’t tell you? I know that Castiel filled him in while I was attending to other matters.”

Dean’s hands clench into fists in the dirt, and he doesn’t respond.

 “Let’s talk somewhere privately. It’s rude to sleep through a performance.” Michael snaps his fingers, and Dean feels the jarring sensation of angelic travel tug behind his navel. Sam melts away with the rest of the scene, and Dean finds himself kneeling on the floor of the panic room. He turns shocked eyes towards Michael, who rolls his eyes. “I can’t take us _that_ far. The spell will snap Sam back here like a bad penny, and I’ve had just about enough of him.”

Michael takes a few steps towards the edge of the prison, and Dean finally sees the changes in the room. The cot is shoved against the side of the room, and other bits of furniture have been replaced. It’s no longer Sam’s detox room – it’s Dean’s prison.

“Last time you were locked in here, do you remember?” Michael tosses over his shoulder. “You were going to say yes to my counterpart, defeat Lucifer, stop the apocalypse.” Michael inspects the corkboard with paper clippings and notes liberally pasted across the soft material, before leaning against the desk and facing Dean.

“Rings a bell. Didn’t we send our Michael into the pit? _Fire in the hole_?” Dean stands. He knows the door to the panic room stands open at his back, the far side of the prison from Michael. Though they both know it makes no difference, there’s no chance of Dean escaping this room unless Michael lets him.

“Cute.” Michael replies to Dean’s jab. “You lost Sam to Lucifer, to the cage. You spent forty long years in hell, and then stepped aside as your brother cast himself into hell. A real self-sacrifice.” Michael’s head tilts on his neck, “Would you like to do a little self-sacrificing of your own, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t reply, but feels a ripple of tension through his chest.

“Sam’s not doing very well, is he? I suppose he didn’t tell you the full story.”

Dean bristles. “He said you escaped and laid down some freaky grace mojo on him to keep him linked in here.”

There’s a glimpse of feline mirth in Michael’s expression. “Did he also mention that maintaining the connection is going to put an increasing amount of pressure on his brain, and will ultimately disintegrate his mind into a vegetative state?”

Dean can only imagine the expression that crosses his face, but it seems to be exactly what Michael was hoping for. Michael’s eyes are bright when he says, “Oh, kept that to himself? Well. Truth will out, as they say.”

“You’re going to kill him.” Dean realizes aloud.

Michael throws back his head and laughs. “Well, I certainly endeavor to _try._ ”

“Let him out. Break the spell.” Dean tries to keep his voice steady and strong, but it tilts dangerously close to pleading.

Michael watches Dean squirm under his gaze, pinned like a bug under glass. “Break the spell…” and his finger spins in the air, like the trailing of a sentence.

Dean’s insides seize up with hatred. He wants to make a break for the door, escape this room. He wants to tear a metal leg from the cot and beat Michael to death with it, and then keep going until the archangel is pulp under his feet. He wants so desperately to _win._ He wants so desperately to go down _fighting_.

He wants Sam to _live._

And that’s really what got them into this mess. That’s what triggered this whole new apocalypse for them to pick up the pieces of. Because Lucifer took Sam from him, took Sam to his _death,_ and Dean… Dean can say no to a lot of things, to a lot of questions. But sometimes… sometimes the only answer you can give when someone’s life is on the line… is _yes._

 “Break the spell… please.” And his throat closes around the last word.

Michael’s smile splits his face like a knife through flesh, and it chills Dean to his core. “I bet that was worse than any sort of pain I could have thrown at you. Now…” and he claps his hands together. “Let’s talk terms.”

“Terms?” Dean repeats stupidly.

“Terms, surrender, the fine print. You, Dean Winchester…” And the humor melts from Michael’s face, smoothing away laugh lines and wrinkles until the only thing that remains is a thin layer over an existence of millennia. “You… have been a thorn in my side for long enough. A troublesome roach that I can’t quite seem to grind under my heel. And I’ve accepted that. I’ve tried to work with you, to let you live out the rest of eternity in your memories. I’ve tried to leave you alone in a dark corner of your mind, let you throw yourself at the walls until you tire yourself out. But I’ve realized why this whole smothering you out business just seems to keep failing, what it is that I’ve been missing.”

“A personality not ripped from a 1950’s TV special?”

Michael’s eyes flash blue with irritation, but he smooths his features back into pleasantness. “I’ve lacked your… capitulation. Your submission. You, Dean Winchester, are going to walk into the waters yourself. You’re going to embrace the drowning emptiness I left you to experience the first time, and you will relinquish your right to resist. To _squirm._ And in return… I’ll let dear Sammy go. He’ll return to the Bunker unharmed, and your ridiculous band of hunters can fight the losing battle against my armies.”

It’s a deal. It’s a good deal. It’s a bad deal.

It’s the stupidest thing Dean’s ever heard in his life.

“What?” He hears himself say, though he’s unaware he’s even opened his mouth. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. Michael’s… Michael’s already won. He’s already inside Dean’s body, he already has his permission to occupy the Michael Sword. He’s willing to give Dean the one thing he would give up anything for – Sam’s life – for something that he already has? “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. You go back into the darkness. Sam goes back to his body. Clear cut.”

Dean’s tongue is frozen in his mouth. He stares at Michael with open distrust, and watches gratification bloom in the Archangel’s eyes. But it’s not Michael he sees – not really. It’s Sam, lying on a patch of wet ground just a few yards away. It’s Sam, who fought so hard to reach Dean every time he slipped away. Sam, who was willing to let his mind crumble to nothing to stay with Dean in this own slice of hell. In the end, it’s always going to be Sam, it’s always going to be family over anything else.

“Fine.” Dean agrees with quiet difficulty.

Michael’s eyes flash blue, searing across Dean’s vision like a permanent scar. “I’m going to need you to say it.”

“Say what?” Dean snaps, apprehension rising in his gut.

“Don’t play coy, Dean.”

 Silence.

 

_Yes._

 

A crack of lightning splits the air, and the electrical discharge ignites the sky like the sun. But it’s gone in a millisecond, and darkness blankets them once again.

“Dean, you… you can’t – “ Sam starts, and his chest feels like it’s made of glass that’s already fractured into a million pieces.

Dean shakes his head like the big brother he is, telling the little brother what’s what. “It’s done, Sam. It’s already done.”

“So that’s it then?” Sam demands, and takes a furious step forward. “You’re just going to give in to Michael? You’re going to let him yank you around in your own head like he owns the place? You’re going to let him just _kill_ you?”

Dean meets Sam’s gaze with pity, and the rain plasters his hair to his forehead. There’s no trace of remorse or hesitation in those eyes. “It’s not like that, Sam. Michael can do what he wants. I can handle it. And I know – I _know_ , that you and Cas and Jack will come up with something to get me out of here. To beat Michael.”

Sam feels his breath catch in his chest, and his voice cracks when he says, “But how do you _know?_ ” Tears or rain blur Sam’s vision, and he doesn’t notice that Dean’s reached a hand out towards him, until he feels his hand close around Sam’s forearm. Sam blinks, and tries to leach whatever kind of strength his brother can give.

“Come on, Sam. I know you will because we always do. We _always_ win.”

Sam shakes his head. He sees hellhounds tearing Dean to shreds, he sees Metatron’s blade sink into Dean’s body. “No, Dean, we don’t – we don’t _always_ win.”

Dean smiles at Sam sadly, but with assurance and conviction. “Bet you 100 _American_ dollars that we do.”

Sam can’t tell if it’s laughter or a sob that tries to bubble from his stomach, but he does know he wants to punch Dean as hard as he can in the shoulder.

“Alright, Dean. That’s enough.” Says a voice from behind Sam. Michael coming to break up goodbyes, to wave as the ship sails over the horizon. Sam doesn’t turn around, doesn’t want to waste a last second on Michael when this is the last he’ll see of Dean until… until he saves him.

And he will save him.

Sam pulls Dean into a tight hug, and Dean thumps Sam hard once on the back. “Thank you for coming to find me, Sam.” Dean says in Sam’s ear, and then Sam feels his brother pull away from the embrace.

When Sam looks again, there’s a segment of railing missing from the dock, and now rickety old steps lead down into the murky waters. Sam watches as Dean catches sight of them, and his brother grimaces at their ill intention.

“Say goodbye to Dean, Sam. But I promise – you and I will see each other _very_ soon.”

Sam bristles, and when Dean takes a step towards the stairs, he nearly tackles Dean. But he’s rooted to the spot, and whether that’s Michael’s angelic influence, or Dean’s conviction, Sam can’t move as Dean takes his first step down the stairs.

Dean wades into the water without hesitation, without showing an ounce of fear of drowning in his own mind again. He takes one last glance at Sam, and his expression is sad but resolute. “I’ll see you soon, Sammy.” He takes another step. The lighthouse’s brilliant glare scorches across Sam’s eyes, and when the beam leaves his face, Dean has been pulled under dark waters and is gone.

Not a bubble escapes from the surface. There’s nothing but ripples of rain continuing their drizzle across the deep expanse of the lake.

“Well. That takes care of that, I sup – “

“You didn’t beat him.” Sam says suddenly, and he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want the last image he carries away with him to be Michael in his brother’s body. Instead, he faces the lake, pictures Dean heading out to calmer waters. “You said he was gone, before. And he wasn’t. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t. We will find a way to defeat you, like we’ve beaten every monster before you. And when we finally have Dean back, I hope I’m the one that finally sends you to the Empty. Forever.”

There’s an eerie silence. For a moment, Sam almost believes that he’s alone on the dock.

Then: a voice flat, without affectation. “I’ll see you at the end of it all, Sam Winchester.”

Sam closes his eyes against the rain. There’s the echo of a Michael’s fingers snapping, and then there’s nothing.

 

In the Bunker, Sam’s eyes open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Over 50k words and we're finally here at the end. Short Dean epilogue coming either tonight or tomorrow, because I can't leave well enough alone, but effectively, we've made it... I'll do a long sappy author's note with the epilogue, but I just want to say THANK YOU so much to everyone that's made it this far with me. It's been wild.


	17. Epilogue

A small place, carved out of nothingness. Contentment hiding between wrinkles in the dark.

July 4th, 1996.

A car rolls to a stop on a dark stretch of road. It’s an old car – a 1967 Chevrolet Impala - older now, but old back then, too – but it’s cared for. It’s loved. It’s home.

The silence of the empty night is broken as two figures wrench open car doors that split the air on shrieking hinges. A younger kid, maybe early teens, throws opens the trunk and nearly dives inside. He tosses aside dingy blades, boxes of ammunition, and unloaded guns. His fingers thread into plastic, and he pulls out the crate they’d spent two months saving for.

The younger boy tears down the field, and the headlights reveal his way, claiming with light the small circle of their territory.

The other figure is a man in his late 30’s. He picks his way more carefully down the slippery hill. He sticks his hands in his pockets, and pulls one out, pleased to find a favorite lighter once thought lost.

They’ve left the tape deck running. Neither figure can hear the music, but it's there, and that's what's important.

Bob Dylan croons from the road: _Mama, take this badge off of me / I can't use it anymore_

The younger boy holds two fireworks high above him, like they’ll shoot off without ignition if he doesn’t concentrate. The man laughs at him: _that’s not how they work!_ But the boy pretends to point them at the man, and he obligingly feigns panic and leaps out of the way. They laugh, and the breeze carries the sound away.

The older man is gone, but in his place stands a 17-year-old big brother, wearing a borrowed, beat-up leather jacket that’s held together with floss and sentiment. It’s their father’s jacket - the father that doesn’t know they’re here. But he’s alive, and strong, and his reaction when they trudge home in a few hours, muddy and smelling of sulfur, will be mostly laughter.

_That long black cloud is comin' down / I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

_Got your lighter?_ The older brother flicks a lighter, and the sparks sizzle out in a soggy breeze. The shorter one laughs loudly into the air, genuine and giddy. Happy. Content.

Soon the air is full of fireworks – and the incandescent light reflects off the mist as if the entire sky is on fire. They run underneath the lights with upturned faces, and the mist pastes ash to their cheeks. They stay for hours, long after they’ve used up their meager supply and sit shivering but satisfied on the dewy ground.

It’s a nice night, and a nice memory. Really - the sort of memory that one could get lost in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. I can't believe it's over. Thank you, thank you, thank you if you've made it to the end with me.
> 
> When I was first starting to think about possible epilogue scenes, I was torn between using a scene from the show, or making up my own - leaning towards the latter. But I was driving to dinner last week, and Bob Dylan's Knockin' on Heaven's Door came on the radio, and obviously, I had to think about "Dean's heaven." The more I thought about it, the more I felt I had to use it. It's such a powerful moment to me in the show, and I think it's really a scene that makes me love Dean as a character so intensely. Dean is such a big brother - he loves Sam (and Jack and Cas) so unconditionally, and the fact that CANONICALLY, this snapshot of their lives is the memory that he would spend his eternity in is such a powerful statement about the type of person that Dean Winchester really is, and the real importance of family to him. Whether or not you liked my ending, I really wanted to highlight this scene to drive home that Dean will pick family over anything, every time. No matter what Michael said in last night's ep Nihilism, Dean didn't say yes to get away from his family, he said yes to save them, and any other idea is just ridiculous.
> 
> I'm still learning a lot about writing (I actually wrote down a "Lena's Writing: The Drinking Game" game on the back of some notes because honestly, sometimes I'm just too ridiculous.) But this has been a huge learning experience for me, and I can definitely see improvements since chapter 1. You have all been really supportive and bolstering, especially those of you leaving comments. So really, really, really - thank you for all your encouragement.


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